


Nostalgia

by midnightsnapdragon



Category: Lunar Chronicles - Marissa Meyer
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fantasy AU, Fluff, Hogwarts AU, Multi, Romance, The Lunar Chronicles Ship Weeks, tlc ship weeks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightsnapdragon/pseuds/midnightsnapdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of disconnected stories involving love and romance between our heroes. Also featuring: secret agents, mythological creatures, modern AUs and an alternate ending to the revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strictly Business

**i.**

“They say you’re the best architect in Shanghai.”

The young woman didn’t look up from the blueprints she was drawing up. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Kai leaned against the office doorway and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Your colleagues.” Who had failed to be subtle as they watched his progress to the architect’s door. “And just about everyone else in Luna Future.”

“Mm.” Pressing her lips together in concentration, she aligned a ruler on the paper and drew a pencil down its length. Her left hand was a complicated-looking prosthetic, plastic knuckles and artificial tendons pulling as she flexed her fingers. 

Kai glanced over his shoulder. Several people who had been eavesdropping turned hastily away, trying to look immersed in their respective jobs. A small blonde woman caught his eye from where she was working at a triple-screen desk and made a shooing motion at him, as if to say, _go on!_

He shifted on his feet. “You called for a mechanical engineer?”

The architect – her office label named her Linh Cinder – finally looked up at him, as if she’d only just noticed his presence, and drew back as if startled. “O-Oh. Hi.” She flourished a hand at the rolling chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Please. I’m just about finished. Madame Nair needs the temple plans before Thursday, and I’d like you to help me check over them.”

Kai shrugged and took a seat. Before the door closed, he thought he heard someone whisper, “Ten dollars says he’ll ask her out.”

**ii.**

In the time it took them to go over the plans for the temple’s architecture and general structure, checking and rechecking the measurements, a lot of people seemed to take interest in their project. From what he could see of Cinder and her colleagues, Kai could guess that while she didn’t like her work being interrupted, it usually happened multiple times a day.

But frankly, it was getting suspicious.

Thorne, coming in with “a new set of measurements,” who gave Kai a good once-over.

“You sent those to me yesterday,” Cinder grumped, waving him off.

Cress, the shy tech specialist, lingering by the door long after Cinder answered her question about the printer that had supposedly been acting up.

A man with a name tag calling him JACIN CLAY, who swept in like he owned the place to demand (on Madame Nair’s behalf, of course) if the blueprints were done yet, acting surprised when he saw Kai there. “I didn’t realize you had company over,” he drawled. “Maybe you’d like to bring your new friend to lunch with the rest of us.”

“We’re not done yet,” Cinder snapped, looking annoyed, just as Kai corrected, “I’m here strictly on business.”

Five minutes later, a beautiful woman with warm brown skin bounced through the door, skipping past the desk at such speed that the papers scattered. Kai watched, looking amused, as Cinder scolded her friend and shooed her out the door, but not before the woman stage-whispered, “He’s handsome!”

Kai pretended not to hear. He could see Cinder’s temper rising and had no desire to incur her probably considerable capacity for angry speeches.

They had just begun to work again when the office door opened a fifth time, Thorne strolling in. “Hey, Cinder, how’s it –“

Growling, Cinder slammed her binder shut and stood from the table. _“Thorne – !“_

The look on her face must have been terrifying, because Thorne threw up his hands in self-defence and backed out of the room immediately.

Kai watched with raised eyebrows as Cinder slowly sat back down, her lips pressed into a tight line.

He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re Linh Cinder? Luna Future's leading architect?”

“Yes,” she sighed, not seeming to care that he was teasing. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Kai said innocently, shuffling his papers. “You seem more like the 'public relations' type.”

Cinder gave him a look that could have curdled milk.

“What? Surely they just wanted advice, or – or help?”

“Trust me,” she muttered, picking up her pencil again, “you don’t know my friends.”


	2. Autumn

She’d almost forgotten about the seasons.

The sky was grim, the trees were a fiery orange, and a chill wind blew through the little glen in the New Beijing Palace gardens. Cinder walked the secluded path with her hands in her pockets, hardly feeling the cold. 

She was starved for birdsong, starved for the sight of trees, starved for the feel of tamped-down soil under her boots. So many little things had escaped her notice while she’d lived in New Beijing – and then she’d gone to Luna. It had come as something of a surprise that the moon was, in fact, a rock. One with a dizzying view of the stars and a fantastical sparkling skyline, but a rock all the same.

Now Cinder turned her cheek into the crisp breeze, filled her lungs with the rich smell of rain, and wondered how she could possibly spend her life up there. On a rock. Because –

Rain. _Autumn_. 

She was lucky to only be the ambassador; Queen Winter Hayle-Blackburn was the one with a life sentence to the throne. Yes, Princess Selene was technically a co-ruler of Luna, but in all honesty, she felt as though she’d dodged a bullet.

Cinder sighed. She was growing into a sap. Feeling nostalgic, and maybe a little foolish, she bent down and plucked a leaf from the stone path, and turned it over in her fingers. Such a bright shade of yellow – the likes of which were never seen on Luna. Not like this.

“You can have that one, if you like,” said a bemused voice behind her.

Cinder dropped to her knees in surprise and stifled the immediate instinct to load her tranq gun, but her heart jumped anyway as she turned to see Kai walking toward her down the path.

“I’d bring this whole garden to Artemisia Palace if I could,” she admitted, watching him approach. “Except it would put your gardeners out of work.”

Kai crouched down beside her with a wry smile. “I thought your palace garden was renowned for … I don’t know …” He twirled his hands through the air. “… tranquility?”

“Not really,” Cinder mumbled. “The trees don’t change colour, and I actually got used to it. Now I feel kind of off-balance.”

He chuckled. “I would have thought that the gravity would be a bigger balance issue.” When she did not reply, she tried again. “I hear the stars are a wonder from up there.”

Cinder shrugged, rolling the leaf stem between her fingers. “It’s not the same.”

“Hey.” Kai clasped a hand around hers, trapping the leaf between them. When she looked up at him, she found that the natural laughter in his eyes had dimmed.

He knew her too well.

“I guess I’m homesick,” she said quietly. Unable to hold his gaze, she looked down at their joined hands; warmth blossomed in her chest at the sight. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Kai’s voice was steady. “Why would it be ironic? You grew up here.”

“I grew up with _Adri_ ,” she said, because that was all there was to say about it. “I just – I don’t know. New Beijing felt like home, but Earth hates Lunars. And there really isn’t a place for me on Luna, either … it grew around the space I left …”

Cinder trailed off. She knew the true reason for her melancholy.

It was nostalgia for what she’d never had.

A place, a belonging. A home to go back to when her burdens became too great.

But she wasn’t sure anymore that the burden of her title and responsibility to Luna – to the entire world, considering the extent of Luna’s power – would ever be lifted.

When Kai said nothing, she looked up and found him gazing at her in a thoughtful sort of way. A small mercy, Cinder thought, that he did not look at her with the same pity or awe she could expect from everyone else.

“I can’t speak for Luna, but you have a home here,” he murmured. Looking away, he considered the treetops. “Maybe not yet, but I think someday you will wake up and smell the coffee and know your place beyond a shadow of doubt, so much so that you won’t realize you know.” A pause. “If that makes any sense.”

Cinder drew back slightly, her mind pulling through his words to the insinuation buried beneath, but he was already standing, pulling her with him. They stood surrounded by the flaming brink of winter, leaves twirling to ancient music none had ever heard, nostalgia for what had once been and what was to come; and a little of Cinder’s heartache seemed to ease.

“Well,” she said, as they started down the path together, “it seems I’m in dire need of a poker face.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Could you tell Nainsi to brew some black coffee?”


	3. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cress is in the middle of a heist when someone from her past barges in.

**i.**

Cress paced the control room, checking the screens to make sure she hadn’t missed any gaps in the security system. Everything was under control as far as she could tell, but still she had a bad feeling that something would go wrong tonight. 

According to the plan, Cinder and Scarlet would be looking for Selene’s Manifesto at this very moment, somewhere in the lower levels of the American military stronghold. Cress hoped dearly that they would come get her and clear out before anyone else came on the scene.

A lot of people would have liked to get their hands on that file, including Levana, the leader of the sinister Blackburn mafia. Including Linh Cinder – and, by default, her allies – who wanted to keep that information (Selene’s rescue and Earthen identity) out of Levana’s hands.

Including Carswell Thorne.

**ii.**

Cress didn’t know why he wanted that manifesto. In fact, she knew nothing about him at all. He had simply shown up at her favoured coffee shop one day, smiled – and she was a goner. Over the three weeks that they’d known each other, kind of dating, she’d told him a lot of things.

For one thing, the part she played in the anti-Blackburn spy organization. This was supposed to be a secret she gave to no one, not even a boyfriend, but at the time she hadn’t seen any harm in it. She’d also told him, with no small amount of pride, that she’d figured out where the legendary Manifesto was hidden.

Cress hadn’t even been suspicious when Thorne had asked her for the location.

The next day, she’d caught him writing a letter that betrayed all her secrets. To whom, she hadn’t waited to find out – she’d simply run out of the room in shock. Thorne disappeared from the face of the earth within a week, and she had been too ashamed to even look for him.

He’d wooed her for information. He was a honeypot. And she had fallen for his act.

Cress hoped he wouldn’t show up tonight and botch everything. She hoped they would never cross paths again.

**iii.**

The beeping of security code buttons came from just outside. Cress jerked up her head to stare at the door; for a moment she was frozen, then she lunged for the gun that lay on the control room’s only desk. Hands shaking, sure she was about to find herself face-to-face with a guard or a Blackburn mafioso, she pointed it at the door.

Scarlet’s words came back to her, ever so helpful: _shoot first, think later._

Easy for her to say. Cress couldn’t even bring herself to kill spiders.

There was a brief silence. Then, the security code on the wall blinked a green light, and the door glided open. She found herself looking down the barrel of a gun.

And just behind it, Thorne blinked, the look on his face plainly incredulous. _“Cress?”_

She gaped.

_Oh, no. This is not good._

He gave a surprised half-laugh, like they’d somehow wound up at the same party, and lowered his gun into the holster at his hip. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” she said stiffly, keeping her sights on him. “At least, I assume you’re here for the Manifesto?”

Thorne grinned – the slow, smoldering grin that had once melted her heart. “You know me.” 

That might have undone her; Cress almost lowered her weapon, the thought of hurting him unthinkable. But then she remembered how he’d caressed her face, how he’d won her trust like a prize, like a _game,_ and her hands miraculously steadied on the gun.

“Get out,” she ordered. The words came out stronger than she could have thought possible. “Before my friends come.”

Thorne cocked his head. “Don’t you want to introduce me?” Lifting his hands palm-out in a gesture of supplication, he took a few slow steps forward. 

Cress jerked back, pointing the gun threateningly at his head. “Get back! Don’t come any closer!”

Apparently not bothered with the threat to his life, he took another step. “Cress, listen to me. I didn’t get to explain the –“

“I don’t” – she faltered – “want to hear any explanations.” For every step forward he took, she backed away, until she felt the edge of the desk digging into her back.

Thorne came to stand not two feet away from her. “Please. Just hear me out.”

Cress gave him the hottest glare she could muster and flicked the safety off the gun. Disbelief flickered across his face, then amusement.

“Cress,” he murmured softly, tenderly. “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

There was a flash of red hair in the doorway. “What’s going –“

BANG.

Thorne howled and went down on his knees, cradling his left arm against his stomach. Behind him, Scarlet stood open-mouthed on the threshold, her eyes following the smoke wisps of Cress’s gun barrel.

"You shot him,” she said, amazed.

Thorne looked up at her through streaming eyes, betrayal etched into his face. “You shot me!”

Cress could only stare at him, a lump rising in her throat. She knew she was supposed to make some witty quip, to make light of hurting him, but all that came from her lips was the hint of a sob.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Scarlet sneered, recovering her temper. Crossing the room in a few steps, she gently took Cress by the arm and guided her away, throwing a disdainful glance at Thorne over her shoulder. “Someone had to do it. I would have shot you myself, but the honour really belongs to the one with a score to settle.”

Thorne’s only response was a groan as he gingerly felt the bullet wound in his upper arm.

As Scarlet led her out of the control room, Cress whispered, _“I shot him.”_

“I don’t know how he’s got the nerve to show his face here,” Scarlet muttered. She knew the story of Cress’s mistake but had never blamed her. “Freaking honeypot.”

Cinder was waiting for them outside, a USB tucked into her pocket, looking slightly panicked. When she saw Cress’s face, she didn’t ask, only gestured for them to _go, go, go._ All three of them broke into a run as, somewhere in the facility, distant shouts began to rise. The guards had woken up.

Scarlet sighed as they turned into the hallway with the secret passage. Bullets pinged off the floor behind them. “Cress, honey, I’m so proud of you. But you should know that the charming ones always mean trouble.”


	4. Roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Mini-Ship-Week theme "Sleepover."

**i.**

“The room is secure,” the agent muttered, peeking past the curtains to the parking lot below. “I found two bugs embedded in the wall. Don’t like the look of that still life painting on the north side, but I’m sure it’s nothing. The others checked the hotel roof … not the best, but not too bad considering the circumstances …”

Kai watched her as she made notes, pressed an ear to the wall, paced the room. She must have been a bit younger than him, still in her early twenties, and had the sort of face that you could overlook in any crowd. Tanned, brunette – as ordinary as you could get. Except for her metal hand, which twitched just like a human one. It was a bit unnerving.

He didn’t bother asking why a painting of a flower vase would be suspicious, or what there could possibly be to learn about such an ordinary hotel room. She wasn’t talking to him. Even from his position by the closet, Kai could hear the voices buzzing from the comms device in her ear.

What did concern him was why, in the _middle of the night_ , had a group of Commonwealth agents knocked on his door and told him he was in mortal danger? And why was this group composed of a) the Blackburn spymaster, b) an army general called “Wolf”, c) a trigger-happy Frenchwoman, and apparently no one else?

Of course they had backup; a recon team had checked this hotel before letting the emperor step foot inside; there were undercover guards posing as hotel staff that stopped by their room periodically to exchange hushed words with Kai’s agent-turned-roommate.

Still. It was all very suspicious. But Torin had told him to trust them, that they were the best people to protect his life and throne. So Kai didn’t really have a choice.

His gaze snagged on his agent-roommate – he still didn’t know her name – as she stopped in her pacing in the middle of the room, the comms unit silent. For the first time, she looked a bit lost, and her eyes glazed over as if she were deep in thought.

Kai cleared his throat. She jumped.

“So,” he said, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt, “you’re being very mysterious about this.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the agent apologized, grimacing a bit. “I can assure you that all this hassle is for good reason.”

Sure it was. “Assassins?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The agent started pacing again, from the bed to the window, the window to the bed. Back and forth. 

“What’s your name?”

The question clearly took her by surprise. She stopped pacing to look at him in bewilderment. “Er – Cinder. Your Majesty. You may call me Cinder.”

Kai’s lips twitched. “Is that your real name?”

“Well … yes and no.” A half-smile crossed her face. “I have two names. Sometimes even I can’t decide what to call myself. ‘Cinder’ is kind of an alias.”

He nodded. “I see. Then you may call me Kai.”

Cinder gave a nervous laugh. “I couldn’t, Your Majesty. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“’Your Majesty’ is kind of a mouthful, though, isn’t it? Especially if we’ll be spending the next few days in each other’s company.”

The agent only shook her head and gestured with one hand around them. “Is the room, uh, to your tastes?” She paused. “Majesty?”

Kai grinned. “Oh, yes. Though I can’t say I’m accustomed to sleeping next to someone else.”

There was a beat of silence. Cinder stared at him.

Then she slowly turned around and beheld the large queen-size mattress draped in a comforter and coverlet.

Her voice was flat. “One bed.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed earlier. With all the investigation and room examination stuff, it seems like a rather big detail to overlook.”

Cinder appeared not to hear him. Smacking a hand against her forehead, she hissed, “Thorne did this on purpose.”

“What?”

She paced across the room to where her small suitcase lay, muttering “I knew I shouldn’t have let him pick the room.”

Kai shook his head. Despite the rather strange prospect of sleeping next to this intriguing young woman, her discomfort was amusing. “Well, then,” he said, bending over his own suitcase and riffling through for nightclothes, “Unless you’re done with your recon procedures, I’ll take the washroom first.”

**ii.**

Whatever Cinder had expected of an impromptu escape with the emperor, it wasn’t this.

The Blackburns were after them, that much was certain. When Cress Darnel had intercepted a message from Levana Blackburn to Sybil Mira, detailing an assassination plan, and given it to the emperor’s adviser Torin, he had ordered an evacuation of the emperor. Naturally, Cinder was given the job of heading the operation.

Typical. She always got the good-looking ones. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that Torin was trying to set her up.

Now she loitered in the washroom doorway, unable to bring herself to approach him.

The bedside lamp was shining onto the book he held in his lap; he leaned back against the pillows, lips quirking at some fictional conversation. A red silk robe remained around his shoulders, obscuring a thin nightshirt but baring his collarbone.

Cinder swallowed. How could someone so easygoing be so hard to approach? This was the leader of a great empire, beloved by the people, not ten feet away from her. And there was only one bed.

She was pretty sure he was keeping that robe on over his nightclothes for her sake.

And it didn’t help that he was … handsome. Eyes that twinkled, a smile so much more dazzling because it was genuine; talking to him gave Cinder a fuzzy feeling. Like lying in a dandelion field on a warm day, drunk on sunshine and light breezes.

Why couldn’t she have had a few more minutes to pack her stuff? Then she could have chosen a more concealing set of clothes for her pyjamas, instead of this loose shirt and baggy soft pants. The thought of sleeping next to regal Emperor Kaito, bedhead and rumpled clothes and all, was mortifying.

When he spoke up, not taking his eyes off the pages, she flinched. “How long are you going to stand there?”

Cinder flushed and walked toward him. He was very much on one side of the mattress – did he really expect her to take the other side? “I, uh … I suppose we’ll get to sleep now.”

Emperor Kai glanced up at her. “Secret agents _sleep?_ ” he teased. “Don’t you have to stay up to make sure no assassin comes in the dead hours of the night?”

Cinder tilted her head in acknowledgement, not meeting his eyes. “Good night,” she said curtly. She walked around to the empty side of the bed and lay down on the carpeted floor, wishing she’d brought her own pillow or something.

A pause.

Then the bed creaked as the emperor leaned across, peering at her over the edge. “What are you doing?”

Cinder turned on her back to look up at him, unable to suppress a scowl. “Sleeping.”

He raised an eyebrow. “There’s enough room here for two.”

She rolled over again, turning her back on him. “No, that’s all right. I’m fine here.” Her left shoulder was already starting to cramp. “Perfectly comfortable, actually.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll each take a side of the bed. I insist.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Wouldn’t you be able to protect me better if you were closer?”

He had a point there. She clenched her teeth.

A sigh. “Cinder. I don’t bite.”

 _Cinder_. Like they were friends now. Pushing herself to her feet, she stood by the side of the bed – hesitated.

Kaito put his book on the bedside table and looked up at her expectantly.

Cinder bit her lip. “I flail in my sleep.”

He blinked. “What, are you a violent sleepwalker?”

“I have a metal leg.”

The emperor stared at her for a moment. She waited for the moment of realization, and revulsion, to cross his face, but instead his eyes brightened. To her chagrin, he began to chuckle.

It was enough to make her grumpily pull the covers aside and thump onto the mattress. “What?” she snapped.

“Nothing. If I’d known that you were going to sleep on the floor for my own well-being, I might have let you.” Kaito reached for the cord of the bedside lamp and winked at her. “But the things is, I could have sworn that I saw you blush.”

He yanked on the cord and the room went dark.


	5. Icarus

**i.**

She dreams of flying, and sunlight.

It’s funny. Winter can never seem to get warm even in the cocoon of luxurious comforters in her bedroom, even with the soft mattress provided for the princess. It’s too cold in this crystal castle.

But in dreams, she’s warm. Warm and safe and happy, with great feathered wings sealed with wax. She soars effortlessly into the sky, dives and spins and turns pinwheels, in the sky so blue it should be thick as water. Maybe the sky is an ocean, too, Winter wonders sometimes; it’s bottomless and free and deadly.

You could suffocate among the stars just as easily as in water.

Some nights she doesn’t want to sleep. She wants to stay awake in case the wolves come. Not gentle wolves, like Ryu, but the slavering monsters deep below the moon’s rocky surface. They’re always down there, waiting for the command to murder.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, where common sense lives, Winter knows they can’t come into the palace. They can’t hurt her. She’s safe here, on Luna, removed from the bloodshed on Earth. (That beautiful blue planet, stained red.)

Common sense has stopped meaning anything. She stays up till morning, keeping herself awake, not venturing past her chambers should a wolf-monster be waiting there to devour her.

For comfort, especially in the long night, she curls up on the bed and thinks of Jacin. 

When is he coming back?

He is the warmth of friendship; he is the glow of love. Even if he doesn’t know it. Winter longs to look into his face and see the sun rise in his smile.

It’s so dark here, and the walls are bleeding.

**ii.**

Sometimes Winter thinks she remembers Earth. Not recalling something she already knows, but … remembering.

The soothing white noise of the sea; breathing, whispering. 

Crinkling parchment. The sharp smell of olives that taste like champagne. The ticking machines in an old tower, where she lived with an old man – 

No, surely that wasn’t her. What tower? And she’s never tasted olives.

It must have been a dream.

**iii.**

A cold and shady room. The walls are stone; when she looks out the window and beholds the dizzying distance to the ground, she staggers back. She wears a white garment around her shoulders and lightweight sandals on her feet.

And wings, always the wings. White feathers sealed with wax. Each of them is twice her height; the old man straps them to her arms and tells her to be careful. Don’t fly too close to the sun. Don’t touch the sea. Don’t lose your head.

But she doesn’t listen. With wings, how could she feel anything but wild, boundless joy? She’ll feel the sun again soon. She and the old man, _Father,_ will escape this prison and fly over the vast blue sea. Like birds, like angels. A better place is waiting for them, somewhere. All that’s left to do is find it.

So she runs to the window, folds her wings to her sides, and jumps through.

**iv.**

Winter runs her fingers along the spines of withered books. The royal library is an oasis in the cold palace of Artemisia, a miracle. She wants to bury herself in old pages and stories until she can’t remember who she is anymore.

But something is happening to her. The taste of old names, ancient names, is on her tongue; strange songs she can’t understand echo in her mind. What is she remembering?

These memories feel old. Older than Winter herself, older than the palace, older than anything she’s ever known. 

Winter pauses on a book with an omega emblem. With one finger, she tips it from the shelf.

“Ελλάδα,” she whispers. _Eh-la-va._ Smooth as butter with a razor edge.

The book is titled _Myths of Ancient Greece._

**v.**

The air rushes past her as she tumbles, head over heels, to the rocks below. Somewhere above, she hears a shout as the old man runs to the window, but it’s torn away by the wind.

With a guttural scream, Winter spreads her arms and _heaves._

Her fall slows, just a bit. But then she’s falling again.

She flaps her wings again and again, half sobbing, knowing she is so close. So close to freedom. She can’t die now. Can freedom kill someone if they take it all at once?

_Let me fly. Let me fly. Let me fly._

**vi.**

Jacin is back.

He has barely stepped through the doors to the guards’ quarters when she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around his torso. He hesitates only a moment before hugging her back, pressing his face into her hair. Winter is in tears.

Neither of them say the words. That’s okay. Winter has stopped waiting for Jacin to say he loves her, instead wondering how she might say them herself. It’s more complicated than she thought.

Pulling back, she looks into his face. Emotion is shining through Jacin’s eyes, more than he usually allows.

“I missed you,” he says, voice so low she might have imagined it.

Winter looks into his face and wonders.

He’s handsome, yes, so much so that her cheeks warm, but when she looks at him she feels more than that. A thousand childhood memories; his embrace is the reassuring warmth of day, the rising sun in his smile. It’s so bright, such a hopeful and glorious thing; she hasn’t seen him truly smile for a very long time, but the memory has stayed with her.

_Memory … the sun._

And then she feels something else. A dropping sensation in her stomach, like it’s gone altogether; the deafening howl of wind, whipping her hair. And sunlight. Rays of the sun reaching out to her, trying to save her, warning her to stay away, _stay_ – 

“Winter?”

She blinks, and the feeling is gone. There’s only the crystal-clear blue in his eyes. Another ocean, another sort of freedom. She wants to lie in that pool of water, if only she can avoid the black hole in the centre.

“Winter, are you all right?”

**vii.**

Over the next few days, she lives half-dreaming. The hallucinations are worse than before, though Winter isn’t sure they are merely visions any more. They’re more tangible than that, more tangible than the blood on the hem of her gown, more real than the growls of wolves reverberating through the palace walls.

_“Ίκαρος. I know how we shall escape.”_

_“How, Father?”_

_“I will make wings for us. We will fly away from Crete.”_

It scares her.

The worst of it is when she reads the myths. Ancient Greece, one of the greatest first-era civilizations in history, seems full of nightmares … golden apples … great feats and heroes … and gods. Artemis, the silver lady, goddess of the moon. Heracles, the demigod of twelve impossible labours. 

The stories resonate within Winter as if calling through her blood. She knows this nation. She knows these stories.

_“You must be careful with them.”_

There’s one story in particular. A tragedy. A brilliant architect and his son, imprisoned on an island called Crete.

_“The feathers are held together with wax. And you know what happens when fire meets wax?”_

_“It melts.”_

The architect made wings for them. Great feathered wings, sealed with wax, each of them twice the height of the boy. They were supposed to escape and live happily ever after, as a family. Him and the boy called – 

_“Listen to me, Ίκαρος . Flying is exhilarating, but you must not lose your head. Do not fly too close to the sun, or the wax will melt and the wings will fall apart.”_

_“Yes, Father. I understand.”_

Icarus.

**viii.**

Father was right. Flying _is_ exhilarating.

Winter swoops through the air, defying gravity, defying death, defying the world. Laughing, she tucks her wings into her sides and plunges, spinning, before launching out her arms and soaring back into the sky.

Behind her, Father calls, “Be careful! Don’t play around!”

“I’ll be fine,” she whoops. Her mind is fuzzy; it’s like she’s feeling all the happiness in the world at once, and the joy is overwhelming. Winter opens her wings, catching the wind, and flies higher.

Behind her is Crete, her prison, where King Minos had imprisoned them both. Underneath her is the sea, dark blue and shimmering under the sun, so far below now that falling would mean death. Before her is brightness – a future, a new life. Winter inhales the sea salt and lets it fill her up.

She knows she’s not thinking straight – drunk on sunshine, drunk on freedom, drunk on this impossible flight – and she doesn’t care.

Winter turns up her wings and goes higher, and higher, and higher. She can’t get enough. The sun will erase all traces of that cold, dank tower room, and she wants to forget that place more than anything.

Dimly, she realizes that it’s very warm, this high in the sky …

“ICARUS!” Her father’s voice is panicked, as if he had been calling out to her for some time now. She hadn’t heard a thing, but now his scream breaks through the haze of happiness. “Your wings will melt!”

Jolting into action, Winter turns her wings down, trying to get lower, but something is wrong. Her arms feel too heavy; the wings won’t respond. Just like that, her joy is gone, replaced with terror as she flaps the wings; with every movement, white feathers drift away, and then she is falling.

There is nothing left of the wings but the useless leather straps on her arms.

She is not a bird, not an angel.

Winter catches a glimpse of her father’s face, anguished and horrified, as she tumbles past him, gathering speed. He pulls in his wings, diving toward her, trying to catch her before the fall claims her life, but that bright future is already gone.

The sun seems to darken as she falls like a stone to the merciless sea.

**ix.**

Winter gasped awake. She thrashed, windmilling her arms like that would give her back her wings, give her back her sun, but she was in her plush bedchamber, safe safe safe.

Breathing hard, she sat up. For once the voices in her head were silent.

 _“Ίκαρος,”_ she whispered, testing out the name on her own tongue. It felt natural, like she’d been speaking it all her life, like she’d simply forgotten it for a while and was only now remembering.

Icarus. The boy who had flown too close to the sun and paid the price.

Why did it feel like it was her? Her, flying to the sun; her, falling to the sea. Winter remembered it – she _remembered it._

She remembered olives and sweat dripping down her neck in the climate, white sand and the taste of sea salt in her parched throat. She remembered Daedalus, the architect, who had designed a Labyrinth for King Minos. She remembered the brush of feathers on her arms as she launched herself out of that dank tower prison and into the light of day.

The calm of the dark room felt strange. Winter tried to soothe her ragged pulse, yet the dream was still fresh in her mind. And another feeling – more subtle, more ominous – crept in behind the panic of the fall.

Something was wrong.

No sooner did she have this thought than someone knocked on the door. Winter jumped back, scrambling away on the bed; the door opened and she gave a little shriek – _they’ve come for her_ –

“Shhh,” Jacin gasped, closing the door behind him and pressing his back against it. His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he’d run to her rooms. His eyes were wild upon hers, agitated.

“Jacin,” Winter sighed, relieved, a smile already on her lips. “What are you –“

“I have to tell you something.”

She caught her breath, hope flooding her chest. Perhaps he truly cared for her the way she did for him, and he had come to tell her. Perhaps the words were what drove him to her chambers tonight.

Then Jacin’s eyes appeared to ice over, and the hope shrivelled. Gooseflesh covered her arms and Winter shrank back, bracing herself; something bad was coming, and she felt she knew what it was. _Please don’t say it, don’t do this, don’t_ –

“Levana has ordered me to kill you.”

**x.**

The words rang hollow. Winter blinked. It was in a mist that she murmured, “To kill me …?”

Jacin tore himself away from the door and plunged into her closet, coming out with a black cloak before Winter could even comprehend what he’d said.

_Jacin must kill me._

“Take this.” Jacin thrust the cloak bundle at her, but she made no move to take it. Growling, he shook it out and draped it over her shoulders, fastening it around her throat. He gripped her shoulders, telling her how she should run from the palace, where she could go, but his voice seemed to come through deep water. She heard nothing. 

Slowly, slowly, it was sinking in: her stepmother had finally run out of patience. Levana truly wanted Winter dead, and she had demanded that Jacin Clay be the one to do it. 

Not like Winter hadn’t seen this coming. For years she’d seen death in the how the queen looked at her; she’d _known_ Levana hated her, and that the queen was ruthless enough to follow through on her hatred. This threat had been hanging over Winter’s head since the day she was born.

She just hadn’t expected it to ever happen.

“Winter, are you listening to me?”

“Why you?” she whispered, staring without seeing at his face. She was looking beyond him, beyond Luna, beyond the third era, to a tower on an island in a shining blue sea. “Why now?”

Jacin’s hands fell from her shoulders. His voice was toneless as he said, “To prove my loyalty.”

Winter’s eyes filled with tears. Her sun, her warm and loving sun, was as good as gone.

She had flown too close to the sun. She had allowed herself to love Jacin. And now they were both paying the price. For she knew, somehow, that Levana’s primary concern was not Jacin’s loyalty to the Crown; it was his loyalty to _Winter._

If he did not care for her, he could kill her and thereby save himself both an accusation of treason and a lifetime of heartbreak. But he did care, and by sparing Winter’s life he condemned himself.

Winter closed her eyes and laughed bitterly, shaking her head. They were doomed either way.

When she opened them, she found Jacin watching her. As if he were drinking in the sight of her. As if he was feeling the same despair that she was.

Winter stepped forward, and for once he didn’t move away as she cupped his face. Her thumbs traced his cheekbones, touched his mouth. She really was crying now.

 _“Winter,”_ he whispered voice breaking.

She smiled a sad, sweet smile. _“σ 'αγαπώ,”_ she choked out, and she hardly cared where the words came from. She had said them, and she knew what they meant, and that was all that mattered.

_I love you._

Winter reached up and kissed him softly.

Jacin stiffened, and she pulled back, heart already breaking. But he looked into her eyes just long enough for her to see the amazement and hopelessness there before, with a quiet gasp, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back. 

It could have been a heartbeat or a thousand years, for Winter felt a lifetime’s worth of love and longing in that kiss. He was her sun, her rising sun, and she had broken out of her prison to see it one last time before she fell.

Was loving, flying too close, worth it when it only brought you anguish?

Winter broke away first, her hands slipping from around his neck to rest against his chest. Jacin didn’t let go, only stared down at her with eyes of melting ice. For the first time in a very long time, Winter could see every thought etched upon his face.

“There’s a book,” she said quietly, slipping from his grasp. Jacin’s hands fell to his sides.

The cloak hood went over her head, a pouch of money into her pocket. “It’s hidden under my mattress.”

Every movement that brought her farther away from him was a stab in the heart.

“I want you to read it.”

But it was time to go.

She sucked in a breath. “And then I want you to burn it.”


	6. Revolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before the last book came out.

**i.**

Artemisia Hall towered above its crystal throne. Dim and dusty and empty, with the fiery orange of a sunset flooding in through the clear walls, it looked as if no one had set foot there for a thousand years. It felt old, and tired, with all the deathly silence of the cosmos.

Three figures, silhouetted black against the dying sunlight, crouched huddled around something on the floor. The smallest one was crying into her hands, fair hair sticking to her cheeks. Another, with black bangs falling into his eyes, kneeled closer than the rest of them, his eyes shut tight.

They were looking at a body.

Too pale, barely breathing, dark red spilling from her side. Fingers halfheartedly clamped over the wound.

A few yards away, another body lay in the dust. Crumpled and motionless, it looked small in the cavernous room. The white gown, once fit for a queen, was disheveled and torn and bloodstained, settled over her like a ragged shroud. One that fit the dead woman’s deeds.

She was alone. Forgotten. No one was coming to mourn her.

A silver crown had fallen from her head, and a bloody knife was clutched in her lifeless hands.

**ii.**

Emperor Kaito, leader of the Eastern Commonwealth, knew his most wanted fugitive was capable of a great many things.

Not the least of which included escaping a prison of highest security, evading the considerable EC armed forces, and kidnapping him from his own palace. Cyborg, Lunar, princess … once upon a time, he’d thought that Linh Cinder had no more surprises for him.

He should have known better.

Kai had seen her fight Lunar monsters like a one-woman army; he’d watched as she faced down Queen Levana herself. For every time she’d fallen down, beaten and exhausted and afraid, she had pulled herself back together and remained strong for what she had to do. Again and again and again.

People died in wars, yes. But somehow he’d always believed that Cinder would remain a constant, a light to hold onto amidst the grim shadow of revolution.

It was easy to think that she was invincible.

Even now, when she lay mortally wounded with her cheek against the marble floor, unable to summon enough breath to even stir the dust motes. Even now, with her grip on his hand slackening with every minute, he refused to believe that she would never get back up again.

Wolf, Scarlet and Thorne were somewhere in the palace, holding off the guards – they might not yet know that Levana was dead.

But Kai was here, frozen in disbelief at her side, and his heart seemed to be splitting. Cress had lowered her head in a vain attempt to hide the hot tears that dripped down her cheeks. And Iko, a silicon-and-steel android, took Cinder’s head in her lap and began stroking the matted brown hair, looking for all the world like she was about to cry.

When Cinder drew a ragged breath, something bubbling sickeningly in her lungs, they all leaned closer.

“Levana?” she croaked, opening her eyes to slits.

“Dead,” Kai whispered.

Turning her head toward him, squinting through tired eyes, the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile. “Bitch put up a fight,” she murmured, lips barely moving.

Iko chuckled softly, but her eyes were dark. “I’ll say.”

When Cinder’s eyes slipped shut, they all tensed. Iko pressed two fingers against her jugular, nodded, relaxed. She was just unconscious.

Behind them, a crash echoed through the hall as the double doors slammed open. They all started, but it was Jacin, sprinting towards them with a white medical kit in his hand. Winter was on his heels with billowing black hair and wild fear in her amber eyes. When she saw Cinder on the floor, she stopped dead in her tracks; the blood drained from her face, lips open in horror. _No,_ she mouthed.

Jacin half-slid into a crouch at Cinder’s side and examined the wound. He paled, then popped open the white box. Kai watched his face as he frantically scanned the contents – bandages, cotton, rubbing alcohol, a syringe, several carefully labelled poison antidotes.

“Please, Jacin,” Iko said in a low voice, cradling Cinder’s head. _“Please.”_

“What happened?” he muttered, riffling through the kit.

Cress hiccupped. “Cinder overpowered her with the gift. But … Levana stabbed her first.”

From where she stood by the doors, Winter collapsed to her knees, hands over her mouth, eyes spilling over with tears as she stared unseeing at Cinder’s body. Tipping her head back, she let out a chilling wail that broke through the silence of the hall, saturating the emptiness with suffocating grief.

Shaking his head, Jacin bent over Cinder, putting his ear to her mouth. Listening to her gurgling breaths. When he pulled back, there was a frightening deadness in his eyes: resignation.

“What is it?” Kai demanded. When Jacin met his eyes, he refused to flinch at their coldness. “Do something!”

“I can do nothing,” Jacin said quietly. “She has a punctured lung and her stomach is ruined. She’s losing too much blood, too fast.”

Kai snarled at him. “Then send for advanced medics!”

“I _can’t,”_ Jacin snapped. The ice in his eyes seemed to shatter, and shining through was a fierce anger. “Don’t you get it? She has _minutes,_ if that, and any medics are out there nursing the citizens of Artemisia. She’ll be dead before anyone can reach her.” He said this matter-of-factly, yet when he looked down at Cinder, there was an almost resentful misery in his face. 

Kai drew back, something hollowing out inside him. Jacin was right. The people were devastated after the Battle of Artemisia. No one would know that Linh Cinder was dying.

His chest seized up as he looked at her – she who had come back from the dead and defied all odds, she who had fought Levana and won, she who had saved the world. She who meant so much to him, honest and real and brave. 

Someone like that wasn’t supposed to die and leave them all behind, leave them for someplace they couldn’t follow.

 _Minutes._ In a few minutes, she would be gone. 

Cinder opened her eyes again – and her body jerked in a violent coughing fit, blood spattering the floor. Kai, Jacin, and Cress drew in a collective breath; Iko’s eyes widened.

Seeing the motion, Winter picked herself up and half-stumbled across the hall, coming to her knees at Cinder’s side.

“Selene?” Her voice was tremulous, plaintive.

Cinder’s lashes fluttered. She must have been in terrible pain, but she managed half a smile. “You’ll be a good queen,” she whispered. “Better than I could’ve …”

Winter’s lip trembled.

 _No, no._ Kai shifted closer. “Cinder, just hang on. Iko’s already commed a medic; you can still … someone can –“

Cinder wheezed a chuckle, as if to say _don’t be so naïve._

Kai winced. He could feel the heat behind his eyes, how his throat was closing up. Even now, on her deathbed, she chastised him for optimism. “You survived a fire, Cinder. You were half-dead and almost irreparable and you survived. You can survive this too.” He didn’t believe she was dying, not really. 

“My work here is done, Kai,” she whispered. Her eyes were losing focus; she stared through him, past the palace to someplace far away in the galaxy. “My work here is done.”

Then Cinder’s gaze fixed on his, full of love and a wry kind of sadness. “I wish …” She coughed and relaxed back against Iko’s lap, never taking her eyes from his. “I wish we could have had … more time.” She glanced around at the faces surrounding her – allies. Friends. Family. “All of us.”

Cress clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Jacin looked away.

Iko drew a strand of brown hair away from Cinder’s eyes, looking down at her best friend with more love than some humans could ever comprehend. “Cinder –“

“Cremate us both.” Her voice was soft now, weak. Already fading. 

They all leaned closer to hear better. “What do you mean?” Iko whispered.

Cinder sighed through her nose and closed her eyes. The pain smoothed from her features, fading into serenity. “Levana and me,” she murmured. “It’s only fitting …”


	7. Unconventional Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the 15/16 TLC Ship Weeks, themed "Sunny Day."

Through the fog of sleep, he heard someone singing. _And the Earth is full tonight, tonight, and the wolves all howl, aa-oooooooh …_

Coming slowly awake, eyes still closed, Jacin vaguely recalled the night before:

Arriving at the cabin late in the evening, cross and bored to tears of Iko’s constant babble.

Discovering that the entire building –a cottage made of wood and glass – was buried in four feet of snow. ( _Discovering_ may be the wrong way to put it. They didn’t realize their predicament until Cress pulled open the minivan doors and fell into a snowdrift.)

Maneuvering around seven other people to get out of the van. Finding three shovels leaning against the snowed-in porch. Tossing them to Cinder and Wolf, and working for at least half an hour before they could clear a path for the van to the garage.

His irritation at Winter – Cinder’s beautiful, mysterious, possibly crazy cousin – when she leaped into the mountain of snow they’d piled together and covered him in a spray of cold flakes.

Getting in. Staking claims on the rooms. Unpacking. And all the while, Thorne and Iko had been yelling that song at the top of their lungs like they had each downed three bottles of wine. 

Already regretting the decision to spend December break with them, Jacin had thrown his bag into the first room he saw and pretended to sleep. At some point, maybe around eleven, someone had come in to check on him (probably the shortcake), but that was it.

Now, morning light was streaming in from the cabin windows – the pale gray of just-before-sunrise. Jacin turned to face the wall, relishing the warmth of the woolen covers and the knowledge that no one would be awake yet.

Peace and quiet. _Bless._

Who knew how long it would last, with these roommates.

“Good morning,” said a soft voice by his ear.

_… you must be joking._

“Winter,” he muttered to the wall. Her whimsical, dancing tones were unmistakable.

“Good guess!” (Even out of sight, he could see her brilliant smile, could feel her shift closer and rest her chin on the bedframe. He stiffened.) “I’m a girl of ice and snow. So you were pretty close.”

“It’s common courtesy to knock before coming in.” Jacin flipped over and found himself nose-to-nose with her; a too-intimate space full of possibilities. For a moment he was almost mesmerized – then Winter’s warm breath brushed his cheek and he leaned back sharply, as if stung, to an appropriate distance.

_She_ didn’t look fazed at all. As if sensing his discomfort, she smiled a mischievous Chesire-cat smile, her eyes glowing like amber in the early morning light. 

He squinted at her suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure I locked the door last night.”

Winter just winked at him and sprang to her feet, the opaque white nightdress fluttering around her ankles. Jacin sat up and watched as she paced to the window. He was unable to decide if he should be relieved that it wasn’t Iko, who got on his nerves more than anyone else, or weirded out, because ... because _Winter_ was _in his room_. He barely knew her and she might be a little bit insane. 

“I have decided,” Winter went on, looking delighted at the piles of snow outside, “that we will go on a bear scavenger hunt today.”

Oh, she was definitely insane. “Looking for bears? In this weather?”

“I know, it’s going to be wonderful. A winter wonderland.”

“You’ll freeze to death and the bears will eat your icicle corpse.”

“Been there, done that,” she sing-songed, eyes gleaming with laughter. When Jacin frowned, she shrugged. “Animals love me.”

“That’s nice,” he said, laying back down on the pillow. “Have fun.”

Winter bounded to his cot. “You should come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you lunatic. I’m going to catch up on sleep. So, if you don’t mind …” He gestured meaningfully at the door.

She appeared to consider him for a moment, hands on her hips. Then she went to her knees again and bent toward him, so close her spiraling black hair brushed the sheets. 

At this proximity, her beauty was undeniable. Jacin was usually immune to this sort of thing, but it wasn’t just that: she was so sincere and completely unapologetic for her strange ways that he couldn’t suppress a bit of admiration. He knew too many people who _pretended._

“Are you telling me,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “that you want to spend your morning in this cabin with everyone else? Possibly the entire day?”

Jacin raised an eyebrow at her, not willing to concede that she had a point.

“And as it happens …” Winter tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I do believe Iko was going to engage everyone in _Christmas decorating_ today. To get us into the holiday spirit.”

“Oh, no,” he drawled, fighting to suppress a smile. “Please, anything but holiday spirit.”

She winked again. “Precisely." She stood with grace befitting a dancer and reached for the doorknob. “Five minutes, Jacin. We want to surprise the others with some absolutely chilling tales.”

“You’ll need a rifle if you’re going after wild animals,” he called to her retreating back.

“That’s why you’re coming along. Leave the bear-whispering to me.”


	8. Behind the Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 15/16 TLC Ship Weeks, themed "Classic Hollywood."

It was a scene of death.

The guard lay lifeless on the ground, his stomach mangled where the knife had gone through. Blood pooled and ran from the wound, soaking the dress of the beautiful young woman who knelt beside him.

Her shoulders quaked with grief as she sobbed uncontrollably into her hands. For this man had been _her_ guard – her friend, her ally, her constant companion, and he had been mortally wounded while protecting her.

She hadn’t known until this moment that she was in love with him.

The dying man groaned quietly and she gasped, bending over him, cupping his face in her hands.

“Princess?” he murmured, opening his eyes.

“Sir Clay,” she cried. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto his uniform. “Please, just stay with me – I’ll call for a medic – you can’t die, not now, not like this –“

His voice came quietly now, more insistent. _“Princess.”_

She bit her lip. “Yes?”

“Do something for me.” He lifted a hand weakly, but hesitated to touch her. Ever proper, ever keeping a respectful distance.

“Anything!”

His pale fingers – _too_ pale, cold as death – brushed her black, spiraling hair.

_“Stay safe.”_

The hand fell, and he was gone.

The princess wailed and touched her head to his chest. She was shaking again, but not with heartbreak … her sobs grew and grew until, unbelievably, she started laughing.

The harsh _crack_ of the clapper board split the silence. “Cut!” yelled the director.

“I’m sorry!” Winter gasped, chortling, and clutched at her abdomen. “It’s just – so ironic – and funny – oh, my poor stomach –“

Groans and chuckles traveled through the ranks of actors and cameramen as the atmosphere in the room relaxed. When Jacin sat up, scowling and rubbing fake blood off his face, Winter collapsed into helpless giggles again. 

From somewhere above them in the rafters, where the control booth was, someone gave an exasperated yell – “I’m so _done_ ” – and a paper copy of the script came hurtling out, fluttering madly, through the air. The document was thick enough that the staples gave out mid-fall, and by the time it had settled on the floor around them, all 824 pages had come apart.

“Don’t even start, Cinder!” The producer, an attractive young woman with blue hair and an attitude, planted her hands on her hips and craned her neck upwards, to where their resident technician was supposed to be. “It’s tragic and heartrending, and they’re going to eat it up!”

Winter dragged the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away tears of mirth.

“You do realize,” Jacin said dryly, drawing her attention back to him, “that we’ve done twenty-one takes of that scene and haven’t gotten through it _once_ without you messing it up?”

She beamed, unabashed, kind of surprised that he hadn’t vanished from their spot on the floor. Jacin didn’t usually stick around. “I know.”

“Get your act together. Literally.”

“Ah, Jacin.” Casually throwing an arm around him, Winter flourished a hand in the universal gesture for _there’s nothing to be done about it_. “How can you resist your own emotions like that? I really don’t know how you do it. That scene is hysterical.”

Jacin scoffed and shrugged her away. “Watching your lover sacrifice himself for you and die is hysterical?”

“No, you silly goose,” she said, poking his chest. “It’s the very idea that we are lovers.”

He merely raised his eyebrows at her, all sass and cynicism.

It was practically a dare.

“You might as well be a statue, Jacin, judging by the sheer amount of emotion you show on a daily basis. That’s why you pretending to be in _love_ is the funniest thing imaginable.” Winter tipped her head at him, a playful smile curling her mouth. “You’re very convincing, too. Have you ever actually fallen in love?”

Jacin drew back, narrowing his eyes, like she’d asked him to dress up as the sugar-plum fairy. “Excuse me?”

“You know. You meet someone, sparks fly” – she flicked her fingers – “and when you’re together, you’re full of warm fire … like a million lucky stars have aligned.” She sighed wistfully. “And kissing, of course. Do statues kiss?”

Jacin rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “That’s my cue. I’d better warn Iko that the swoony psychodrama she’s written is messing with people’s minds.”

Winter watched him walk away, the fake-bloodstained dress sticking to her skin, and wondered if that was a smile tugging at his eyes. If the good-natured banter was a figment of her imagination.

When they had first begun practicing their act, Jacin had barely responded to her friendly advances; any invitation to coffee or lunch would be given a short, clipped _no, thank you_. Almost a month after filming had started, she thought he might be warming up to her, but they weren’t quite friends yet.

It was getting ridiculous. Every day, they looked deep into each other’s eyes, held intimate conversations, and feigned attraction for the cameras, and he couldn’t be bothered to make nice? 

Well, that was Jacin for you. And the attraction wasn’t totally an act on Winter’s part.

Maybe that was why their pretend romance was so funny.

“Take twenty-two!” shouted the director, Dr. Erland, a husk of a man who had perfected the whole looks-can-kill philosophy. 

Cameramen took their positions. The cast and crew dispersed to various parts of the room. Somewhere in the void above them, Cinder dimmed the lights.

Winter stood, and brushed herself off, and smirked to herself.

Swoony psychodrama, indeed. She was having too much fun for Jacin to scare her off now.


	9. The Little Phantom Girl

She comes with the first snow.

**i.**

Thorne has been waiting for weeks for the little phantom girl to appear. The first thing he does every morning is look out the cabin window, and feel disappointed when he does not see her face pressed against the glass panes. He had almost gotten used to her presence. 

The days grow shorter, and the nights longer. He gets ready to spend another cold winter in this drafty cabin. There’s a town maybe ten miles away, the closest pocket of civilization to the forest where he lives, so he makes a few trips there for provisions and snowshoeing gear. The journey will become impossible once it really starts snowing.

He knows from experience that he won’t find the girl, not if she doesn’t want to be found. She is insubstantial and weighs nothing at all – she could hide anywhere. He could search for years and years without ever finding her.

Besides, he has no idea how ghosts spend their free time. Making daisy crowns? Flying? Jumping out at unsuspecting hikers?

The ghost has always been a mystery to him.

Still, when he goes into the forest, he leaves the rifle behind. No bullet could touch her now, but the last thing he wants is to keep her away.

*

Before, she always came with summertime. She would dance through the golden woods, always on the edge of his sight, her long braid flung behind her like a kite – a wood nymph, a wraith – and leave pink miri flowers scattered in her wake.

Sometimes, when he looked out the cabin windows, to the forest beyond, she would wave at him shyly from the shadowy treeline.  
If he dared to come closer, she vanished.

For years Thorne had to wonder if he was losing his mind. Self-doubt was a severe blow to his confidence, especially when it was over a girl – though not the way he’d always imagined it would be.

*

When she finally let him approach her, he was not afraid. She stood there, letting bees buzz around her head, as he took slow steps forward through the grassy clearing.

When he looked at her, he did not see something unnatural or frightening. He saw that she was young, and sort of pretty, with a sweet heart-shaped face. He saw that she glowed with bright yellow sunlight, as if all that summer has fused into her essence. And, alive or not alive, there was kindness in her eyes.

They walked together. When he stepped out of the forest and into the meadow where his cabin was, he looked back in time to see her melt back into the trees.

*

Maybe ghosts get lonely, too, because she was there the next day, peeking out from behind the fence that kept wolves away from the cabin. He saw her out the window while washing the breakfast dishes and nearly dropped a bowl on his foot. The phantom ducked out of sight.

Thorne found her crouching behind the fence – waiting for him.

*

Ghosts are strange companions. They are soundless and weightless and leave no mark upon the earth. They are not quite there, and sometimes talking to them is like talking to oneself.

Most people would feel unsettled. Most people would question their own sanity.

But he has never been _most people._

Instead of sprinkling mint leaves on the windowsills and tacking nails into the doorway, thirteen at a time, Thorne welcomed her as a friend. They held races in the forest; they played board games, the ghost pointing to the moves she wanted to make and Thorne moving the pieces for her; while he prepared a dinner of smoked venison, humming a sailor tune, she sat on the counter and swung her legs.

He did most of the talking. He chattered on about the nearby town and what he thought of everyone there, sometimes even - to her amusement - musing out loud about the secret lives of ghosts.

She never spoke. The one time he dared to ask her how she had died, she gave him an odd look and was gone in the blink of an eye.

Thorne was surprised to see how much he missed her then.

*

“Where do you go?” he wanted to know. They were lying in a patch of flowery meadow, side-by-side, watching clouds stream across the cerulean sky.

She turned to him with a questioning look.

“When summer is over. You just disappear one day and don’t come back.”

All she gave him was a shrug. There was no indent in the grass where she tipped her head back, and it was the slightest bit unnerving to see the grass stalks go through her head. But friends do not judge friends.

“I think you’d like it, is all.” Thorne paused, wondering how to describe the cold season. “It’s a beauty.”

When she said nothing, he offered, “You’d fit right in.”

The way she hid her face behind her hands was almost bashful.

*

Once, when he was walking alone through the wood, she jumped down from a great tree and landed directly on the path in front of him. The look on his face must have been priceless – she bent double with inaudible laughter, clutching her sides. It was the first sign that she was starting to feel comfortable around him too.

And neither of them was lonely anymore.

*

One year, he brought a girl home. Her name was Kate Fallow. 

They spent the summer together in the cabin, alternating between the bedroom and various innocent activities. Life was good – tending the garden, hiking, and gathering mushrooms to make soup. She listened with interest as he told her about the process of making maple syrup.

Thorne wanted to introduce her to the ghost. A girl friend would do the lonely soul some good, and surely Kate would understand? 

Unlikely, considering that she ran from spiders.

But as it turned out, the little phantom girl did not appear that summer.

She only came with the cold – when the leaves began to fall.

One evening, he and Kate were curled up together with hot apple cider. Then, just for a moment, the girl’s ghostly face flickered in the cabin window with a look of hurt in her eyes, and was gone again. Thorne nearly knocked the cider over as he ran outside, leaving a disgruntled girlfriend behind. 

Outside, the trees were bare and the stars had come out. He found the girl hovering near the cabin and wringing her hands. He called out; she froze and stared at him.

Kate appeared in the doorway, asking what was wrong, urging him to get back inside. She couldn't see what he saw - but all Thorne could do was step closer to the pretty, friendly ghost girl and ask, in a low voice, “Are you okay?”

Silently, the girl laid a hand on his arm – to comfort, to push him away – but her hand went through like she was nothing but air.

Kate complained loudly of cold. Thorne tried to reason with the ghost, get her to speak, but she just stared horrified at her own fingers like she’s never seen them before.

 **ii.**  
He’s sitting on his front porch, blowing on a mug of tea, when the first flakes drift toward the ground. The world grows quiet.

“About time,” he mutters, breaking the muffled silence, even though a part of him is panicking. She should have appeared by now.

Then he feels a soft breath by his ear. All the worry rolls off his shoulders as he grins, and turns.

There she is, the transparent girl in a blue frock with her fair hair swept over one shoulder. Soundlessly, like the snowfall, she sits beside him and wraps her arms around her knees. The wooden porch railing is visible through her pale cheeks.

“Hey there, ghost girl,” he laughs. “What took you so long?”

Her only response is lowered eyes, and a sad smile. 

He hadn’t expected her to answer anyway. Maybe ghosts really can’t talk. So instead, he tells her about the lost cat he found at his door a few days ago, shivering and meowing plaintively. The cat has been christened Boots, Thorne explains, and will be delighted to meet her.

As if on cue, a fluffy brown tom noses open the cabin door and pads to the porch steps where they sit. Thorne watches proudly as Boots curls up beside the ghost, giving her space like she is actually there.

The girl smiles again and tries to touch the cat’s soft fur, but her fingers go through him as they do with everything else. Boots jumps as though someone’s poured ice water on him and runs into the snow.

Thorne grimaces apologetically as her shoulders slump, crestfallen.

“Sorry. It will take a while for him to get used to you. But he’ll come around, you’ll see.” Thorne sets his mug down and stands, brushing white flakes off his coat. He gestures to the door. “Want to come in?”

She bites her lip and looks away.

“Don’t be shy,” he says, grinning. “You beat me seven-to-one at Connect Four the last time, remember?” He rubs his hands together like a criminal mastermind. “I am determined to prove my worth in battle and restore my honour.”

She does nothing, just stands there with her arms wrapped around herself.

“All right, then …” Thorne tries for some enthusiasm, though worry pricks at him. She never turns down a game – in fact, she likes to win even more than he does. “Snow angels?”

She flinches.

“Right, sorry, forgot that you can’t – that you don’t – uh.” It’s his turn now to feel uncomfortable. You have to be so careful about offending ghosts. “You want to just … stay out here and talk, then?”

The girl squeezes her eyes shut. She looks like she’s about to cry.

“Are you okay?”

No response.

Thorne is at a loss. Usually when a girl gets weepy on him, he leaves, but something compels him to comfort this one. Is it chivalry? Pity? Brotherly affection? He has certainly been around her long enough.

Finally the ghost girl looks up. It occurs to him that her normally bright yellow glow has dimmed, to something almost … gray.

What does that mean?

She points to herself, then at the forest, where dark green coniferous trees are a stark contrast against the bleak sky and the snow-coated land.

“You want to go in the forest? Take a walk?”

She shakes her head and points again, to herself, to the forest. Then she mimes a cut with both hands, as if to say _no_ or _end_ or _never._

Thorne squints at her. “You … _don’t_ want to go in the forest.”

The way she rolls her eyes is surprisingly familiar.

“I don’t –“ He exhales, frustrated. “Why don’t you ever talk? Can you talk?”

The girl gives him a hurt look and makes the series of motions again. When he spread his arms at her, confused, she points at herself and raises her eyebrows in a mute prompt.

“Ah, I know this game.” Thorne clears his throat. “You …”

A _never_ slash, with both hands.

“Don’t …”

Walking fingers, toward the cabin.

He scratches his neck. “… go here?”

A shake of the head.

“Go inside?”

Another shake.

“Come back?”

The ghost points at him, as if to say, _yes, finally,_ and Thorne’s heart plummets. “What do you mean, you aren’t coming back?”

She shrugs. She is hardly more than a shadow now, with the snow shining through her weak gray image.

“You’ve always lived here, though, haven’t you? Why would you leave?”

Narrowed eyes.

“Not always,” he corrects himself quickly. “I just mean, why now? I’m not that much of a bore, am I?”

The ghost comes closer and floats upward so they are eye-to-eye. She is so close that her image is like a film laid over his vision, tingeing the scenery behind her with grayness. He meets her gaze, a bit stunned, and it occurs to him that she has never acted like a ghost before.

There are silver tears sparkling on her cheeks.

She lifts one tentative hand to his cheek, and where she touches him, ice seems to spread through his flesh. 

Thorne shudders and pulls away. He is numb from his nose to his fingertips.

Seeing this, the little phantom girl buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders begin to shake. Then she whirls away and vanishes, like nothing more than a gray rag on the wind.

**iii.**

The forest feels lonelier than before. Board games gather dust on their shelf.

She doesn’t come back next year.


	10. Mischief Managed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts AU!

**i.**

“She keeps the key in a secret compartment.” Winter riffled through Professor Benoit’s bookcase, letting her fingers dance over titles and leather bindings. “Somewhere you wouldn’t expect to find it.”

Jacin looked up from where he was going through the desk drawers. He gave her a skeptical look. “And you know this how, exactly?”

A shrug. “I have my sources.” She moved on to the office’s paneled wooden walls, pushing and pulling to test for hidden doors. There was no need to explain that she got her information from a crystal ball and a certain shy Ravenclaw girl. “There are answers everywhere, if you just know where to look.”

“Sure,” he muttered, shutting the last drawer with exaggerated caution. “Whatever you say, Trouble.”

Winter cast him a slightly guilty look before dropping to her knees and pressing her ear against the wooden floorboards. She still had not told Jacin what they were really doing here tonight, why she’d gone to all the trouble of sending him an encrypted note (delivered by owl at breakfast) so they could raid their Herbology teacher’s files.

If she explained, he might start to think that she was every bit as crazy as rumour claimed she was.

Lips pressed together, she knocked softly on the floorboards, listening for echoes.

“So,” said Jacin casually, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, “are you going to explain what this is about?"

Cheek squished against a bit of carpet, Winter considered it for a moment. “No.”

“You know, I’m not going to help you blindly. I’m a prefect. If Professor Benoit catches us – or worse, her granddaughter –“

“Scarlet is my friend,” she said blithely, crawling to another spot of floor.

He huffed. “Yeah, well, she isn’t mine. You might get off scot-free for this, but I’m not exactly a favourite among the staff. Or the students.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” _Knock, knock._ “You’re the most loveable person I’ve ever met.”

A smile tugged at his lips as he pointed at her. “Don’t play innocent. I know you, Winter, remember? We’ve been friends since before Hogwarts. You wouldn’t mess with a teacher’s office just for the hell of it, that’s Thorne’s job. So while I appreciate the invitation …” He trailed off. “What are you doing?”

Winter had gotten to her feet and was now balancing precariously on her tiptoes with one hand in the small chandelier, feeling around the candle-holders. “Looking for the key,” she told him matter-of-factly, yanking her singed fingers away.

Jacin threw up his hands. “What key? Are you going to give me a straight answer or not?”

She merely steadied the chandelier and winked at him.

Sighing, he crossed the room to the window and peered out at the grounds. “Fine. Just make sure you finish before she gets back.”

Winter glanaced at the enormous piece of parchment spread out on the desk. The Marauder’s Map, folded to show Professor Benoit’s office and the surrounding corridors, didn’t indicate that anyone else was in the area except them. “We still have time.”

Jacin followed her look to the map, and scowled. “I don’t trust that thing. How do we know it’s not infused with Dark magic?”

Winter didn’t reply. While she had never doubted the map, Jacin had been telling her for years to get rid of it. It was too powerful, he said. There was no such enchantment that could allow a piece of paper to show the presence of the living and the dead, to know their names, to follow their footsteps.

The map concerned her, too, but not in the same way. On the cover flaps were four black signatures – so familiar to her that she could have perfectly forged them while blindfolded.

_Lemoncake, Frankenstein, Blanche, Lionheart._

She felt that twinge again, the insatiable curiosity. How many times had this map come to her aid? How many hours had she wandered the castle grounds at night, with only these mysterious characters and their fantastic creation for company?

Why couldn’t she find out anything about who they were?

“Look, I know you wouldn’t do this without good intentions, but there’s nothing here. Michelle Benoit is just a normal old witch. She’s not even involved with the Ministry!”

Winter shook her head to clear it. The Marauders would have to wait; she had more important things to do tonight.

“I think,” she said slowly, turning to meet Jacin’s cold blue eyes, “that she may be involved in something much more interesting.”

“Pleased don’t tell me it’s about Nargles.”

“No.” Winter wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the floor. She didn’t want to see the look on his face – what if he decided that she really was crazy?

_Say it. You have to say it aloud. Bring your thoughts into words, and your words into actions, and maybe that will make it real …_

Goosebumps spread across her skin as she whispered, “Selene Blackburn.”

When he said nothing, she looked up through her eyelashes. Jacin was staring at her like she’d sprouted a second head.

“Selene? Are you –“ He stopped, seeming to think better of what he was going to say. “Selene is dead.”

“I have reason to believe that she is not,” she said, in her best Ravenclaw voice. “And that Professor Benoit may have something to do with it.”

Jacin sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “This is why you dragged me out in the middle of the night? I thought it was going to be some good-natured mischief, rearranging her files or something. For old time’s sake. But that’s not at all what you had in mind, is it?”

Winter had expected disbelief and anger. She had expected him to scoff at her, to laugh and completely dismiss her as crazy. She had not expected this, this …

Disappointment?

“She was my friend,” she said softly, looking away again. “Yours too. If there’s any chance, any chance at all that she might be alive …”

“Then it would solve all our problems, wouldn’t it? Salazar Slytherin would have an heir and Levana would never harass the Muggles again. But she’s dead, Winter.” He turned away, as if he didn’t want to meet her gaze. “We should leave. _There is nothing here.”_

Winter opened her mouth to say something, to convince him to stay, to blurt out all her fears and hopes and misgivings about Selene … but she never got the chance.

Because when Jacin’s heel came down on the floor, in a spot neither of them had thought to check, there was a soft _plink._

And a small brass key materialized on Professor Benoit’s desk.

Forgetting their argument, Winter gave a delighted gasp and snatched it up.

Jacin’s mouth fell open. “How did that –“

“Magic, Jacin, magic!” Certain beyond a shadow of doubt of what she had to do, Winter bent over the desk drawers again and yanked them open, one by one.

The first was full of Herbology books and unmarked assignments. The second – farm bills, customer orders, pastry recipes …

The third was empty.

Eyes shining, hardly daring to breath, she shut it again and fit the key into the lock.

_Click._

Jacin knelt at her side, his expression indecipherable.

“Mischief managed,” Winter whispered to herself, and peeked inside the drawer. 

**ii.**

It was completely bare except for a small scrap of parchment.

Winter stared at it, heart pounding. Here it was – an answer, a clue, _something._ All her schemes and secret hopes, come to fruition. 

When she didn’t move, Jacin plucked the note out himself. He held it so they could both read what it had to say:

_Congratulations! You are now in terrible danger._

_There used to be four of us. We coexisted in careful harmony, like the founders of the Hogwarts houses, and worked together to create wonderful things – things that could benefit wizards and Muggles alike._

_Then one of us grew hungry for power. She wanted the wizarding race to stand above all others, to make Muggles and unworthy Muggle-borns bow at her feet, and she became willing to sacrifice innocent people for these measures. She once had a lover among us, but when he tried to stop her, she had him killed. The two of us who were left had to go into hiding._

_Only we know that Selene Blackburn is alive. She is hidden in the safest place in the world, where she will never find her. It is now up to you to make sure Selene is safe and knows her own heritage._

_We don’t have much time left. Soon, she will track us down, and there will be nothing you can do for us. There is nothing we can do for you, either._

_You know what is at stake. Good luck._

_-Frankenstein, Lemoncake_

Winter exhaled and leaned back. Beside her, Jacin went absolutely still, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

Realization dawned on them both.

“Michelle Benoit is a Marauder,” he said under his breath.

Winter shook her head slowly. “Selene is truly alive.” With a sideways glance at him, she promised, “I won’t say ‘I told you so’.”

Jacin didn’t seem to hear her. “Then” – he glanced with narrowed eyes at the parchment note – “Who’s the rogue, the one that had her lover killed?” 

Neither of them responded. This much, at least, was obvious.

The rogue Marauder was Levana.


	11. Sirens

**i.**

Crescent thinks a good deal about reflections these days.

Sometimes, when the world is dark and quiet, she slips away from the others and swims to the surface. The air cuts her lungs from the inside (it’s so unlike water, so _empty)_ but she grits her teeth and drags herself up on the rocks, where she can sit alone, and shiver, and watch the moonlight tremble on a dark ocean.

Her ocean. 

_Their_ ocean.

The others hardly go above anymore. They prefer to stay beneath the waves, nothing but a silly myth to humankind, and amuse themselves with pearls and seaweed-crowns. Only when a sailor ship is nearby do they emerge, and flock like ravenous piranhas to the siren-cliffs.

To have some real fun.

Funnily enough, it’s on these wild days that Crescent can forget her self-doubt. Sirens are born of the ocean, after all, and despite those peaceful moonlit nights, Crescent knows that water is not by nature peaceful at all. It is unrestrained and rushing and free.

It’s only when she faces the storm with her sisters, arms upraised and voices swelling, that she can stop thinking.

Only with a young man’s soul in her hands does she feel complete.

**ii.**

Then, of course, there’s that other reflection. The one that follows her wherever she goes.

They’ve plundered thousands of mirrors from their victim ships. Most of them are small, plate-size really, probably used for shaving by the seamen. But sirens are vain, and it seems that no matter what underwater cave or clamshell-bed Crescent comes across, someone has put a looking-glass there.

Whenever she tries to get close to those hidden mirrors, for a chance to look into her own eyes, the siren who lives there whips out with a ready snarl. A hiss, a flash of those pointed teeth, and Crescent darts away through the water.

Sometimes it is easy to forget that she is one of them. 

She’s certainly treated that way. Every victim ship is stripped clean of reflective surfaces before she can get close – they won’t let her have a mirror. For her kind, that is the deepest humiliation of all.

If they lived like wolf packs, Crescent Moon would be the omega. And that is because she cannot _sing._

**iii.**

It’s a storm day.

There’s a thrumming in the sea maybe twelve leagues away, and the sirens can feel it. They whisk around the underwater base of the cliffs and fill the water with unholy shrieks of excitement. 

Crescent watches from afar, nestled among anemone in the nearby coral reef. Though she doesn’t join the others in their revelry, anticipation of the feast prickles through her.

Her form fills out, solidifies, until it’s more than water. She becomes a pretty human-looking girl with short hair that floats around her face. The rags of a dress twist around her legs, ever so gracefully. 

Unbidden, she remembers the feeling of standing on the cliffs. She remembers bracing herself against the gale, planting her feet on the rough rock, and how the wind whipped the dress harshly against her skin.

Those moments have their own kind of exhilaration. But Crescent belongs in the ocean. Water is soft and forgiving, almost as if time itself has slowed down, and she would not trade it for anything.

The water begins to swirl in frenetic eddies around her. The sirens all howl and flock to the gleaming, shifting surface, and Crescent catches the scent of the ship: rosewood oil, moss, and barnacles. And beneath that, the strongest, most alluring thing of all.

Human flesh.

She bares her teeth in a monstrous snarl, and launches upward to join her sisters.

**iv.**

It’s a frenzy. The sea is choppy and gray, the sky overhead a dull slate colour. Storm clouds sweep in and spiral with the promise of rain.

Breaking into the air is like having her breath sucked out, and the unnatural space around her head where water normally flows … it’s a vise of emptiness. Crescent shudders, but every sensation is eclipsed by hunger and desire. The panicked shouts of the sailors seem to her like the sweetest music in the world.

And the music. Oh, the _music._

Siren-song fills the air around her, cresting and flowing like the tide. Crescent tips her head back and sees her sisters atop the cliffs; their mouths are open and magic is pouring out. They call to the sailors, and the call is irresistible.

Slowly but surely, the ship changes its course, so that the nose points towards the cliffs and the beautiful women that wait there.

Crescent cannot join her sisters. Her singing is flat and useless, like a human’s. She can only stay at the base of the cliffs and wait for her share of the kill.

But this time, she won’t. The storm is in her blood and she cannot, _will not_ stay put. When that ship goes down, she is going to have the first pick of the lot.

She lunges forward.

**v.**

The foolish men, young and old, are rowing and steering for all they are worth. From her perch on the stern, where she has painstakingly dragged herself, Crescent can see the mad, infatuated light in their eyes.

The only thing in their minds is getting closer to the sirens. It’s already over for them. They will be no different from the thousands she’s consumed before.

But – what about _that one – ?_

Blue eyes meet hers across the deck. Clear, _lucid_ blue eyes, and they belong to a man of maybe twenty years old, with dark gold hair and stubble on his jaw.

And he’s looking straight at her. 

Crescent nearly falls off the edge of the ship. She has no pulse, and no blood either, but something like shock catches in her throat.

To him, she should look like a small, innocent young woman with eyes like chips of blue sky. Perhaps that _is_ what he’s seeing. But judging by the way his eyes narrow, the way he stands still while his friends dash and crowd around him, all but throwing themselves overboard to hear the music better … he knows exactly what is going on.

For a moment, even though it’s impossible, the world goes silent in Crescent’s ears. She blinks.

Then it’s over and the man is moving again. He drags a comrade from the ship’s wheel and grabs the knobs, before giving the wheel a sharp yank. 

The ship lurches away, making several sailors lose their balance and crash to the deck. Crescent herself has to grab a rigging rope. Those who kept their footing shout at the man in anger and converge upon him almost instantaneously, but there – an almost imperceptible break in the siren song, and the sailors almost seem to remember themselves. 

Then the music comes back tenfold, building up to a crescendo. Her sisters have gotten over their surprise. One sailor takes hold of the wheel and jerks it back to the cliffs. The ship is close now, so close.

Crescent jumps to the deck. No one pays her any mind, not even the lucid man, and that infuriates her – that she should be the lowest and most powerless of the sirens, and yet completely unnoticed by the men crowding this ship … it isn’t fair.

If only she could _sing._

But it doesn’t matter. The song swells in the air, weaving the wind and water, and the black rock cliff looms in front of them, eclipsing the sky.

The sailors’ expressions are ones of delight and passion. Their gazes are hungry on the sirens, the young maidens who _sing_ so fairly, who promise them happiness and eternal love ...

But Crescent does not look at them. She has seen thousands like these doomed souls, and she will see a thousand more. She is watching the lucid man. 

He’s panicking. He tries to drag his friends away, but they hit and snarl at him, completely under the spell. Hopelessness flashes across his face. Crescent leans forward, practically tasting his blood – but then his expression changes. Resolve. 

As the rest of his crew clusters at the front of the ship, eagerly awaiting death, one set of footfalls pounds against the wooden deck. One man breaks away from the rest.

And just as the bow of the ship crumples against the cliffs, the lucid one vaults over the starboard side and vanishes into the waves. 

Crescent does not hesitate. She plunges after him.

**vi.**

Her solid body dissolves. She shudders, unaccustomed to so quick a change, then darts after the sailor. To eat him? To drown him? To tell him that he just made the stupidest move possible? She has no idea, but at this very moment her sisters will be descending upon the destroyed ship and its unfortunate men, and Crescent wants _this one._

Bare feet kick in front of her. He has done away with his boots. Smart move, but no matter what a skilled swimmer he is, he is no match for her.

Crescent reaches out with one transparent hand and brushes against his heel.

She could devour him. She could grab hold of him right now, and he would be all hers to enjoy. None of the others could snatch him away from her, regardless of her nonexistent _voice._

But she doesn’t.

For whatever reason, she swims after him steadily, even when distant screams pierce the water around them. Even when the storm calms down and the silence is all but complete, save for the sailor’s laboured breathing.

The siren does not touch him. She follows him all the way to the island.

**vii.**

He has dragged himself a good way up the sand, where the tide doesn’t come up, and lay down. From underwater, Crescent watches the faint rise and fall of his chest. She is unable to decide between the desire to eat him and the curiosity – how did he resist? How could anyone resist the sirens’ call?

Finally, he braces himself on one elbow and looks toward the ocean. “I know you’re there,” he says quietly, between gulps for breath.

Crescent doesn’t move.

His blue eyes fix on where she hides beneath the surface of the waves. He curls his lip at her. “Go on. Sing for me, why don’t you?”

This has never, ever happened before. No one resists. No one speaks to them. No one even believes sirens are real until it is too late.

She takes her solid form and steps out of the water. The dress rags, a faded blue, cling to her skin, but he doesn’t take any notice. He simply waits, his gaze never wavering from hers. Brave man.

She takes a painful breath. “I can’t."

"All sirens sing,” he says tiredly. 

“Not me,” she bites back, a bit defensive. “And anyway, you wouldn’t hear me, would you? You can resist us.”

A hint of a triumphant smile flickers over his face, though it’s quickly extinguished. “You bet I can.” With a grimace, he digs his fingers into his ears and pulls out two lumps of wax.

Crescent blinks. “Oh.” 

"Didn’t expect that, did you?” He chucks the wax away, too exhausted for anything more. Laying back down, he sighs, and closes his eyes. “If you’re going to eat me, get on with it. Nothing I can do about it now.” 

"I _can’t,”_ she repeats.

A beat. Then he opens one eye. “What do you mean?”

Irritation flares through her. “I mean, I am physically incapable of singing you to death.” 

“Glad to hear it.” He shakes his head, soft hair rustling against the sand. “Figures. All my friends die, and _I_ get the one that can’t sing. Sometimes I really can’t believe my luck.” 

Something twinges in Crescent’s chest. His tone is flippant, but there’s grief beneath the surface. He witnessed the horror of the sirens and lived. The sole survivor.

It’s not like she doesn’t know what it meant to kill someone. She’s done it before. And that was all it was … killing to satisfy hunger. 

But then again, she isn’t a true siren, is she? She can’t _sing._ She’s not even beautiful like they should all be; she doesn’t know the first thing about seduction. Her entire existence has been watching her own reflection, wondering if it was another creature looking back at her, and consuming lives. There is joy in it, but she can’t quite remember why ...

Hesitantly, she folds her legs and sits beside him, just a foot away. Personal space is a thing with humans, right? 

“My name is Crescent Moon.” 

The man chokes on a mirthless laugh. “Get away from me.” 

“You’re the first person to ever escape.” 

"That makes me feel _much_ better. My friends are all dead! Brainwashed and eaten by your succubi friends!” 

Crescent presses her lips together. Sand is sticking to her damp skin and she’s itching to slip back into the water, but she can’t pull away. She has never spoken to a human before. 

“They wouldn’t have felt any pain,” she says softly, unable to look at him, instead examining her own pearly fingernails. “Their last moments would have been bliss.” 

Quite suddenly, the man sits up, eyes ablaze. 

“You know what?” he hisses furiously, his handsome face drawn with hatred. “I. Don’t. Care.” 

Crescent finds herself wide-eyed and speechless. 

Recklessly, like someone with nothing to lose, the man leans closer until his lips are a mere inch from her own. He’s practically daring her to have a go at him – in whatever way. 

Or maybe he’s daring himself.

They stare at one another, completely still; a sundered man and an ungifted, unbeautiful siren.

Finally the tension is too much and Crescent springs back, tripping and toppling into the sand. It’s probably the most ungraceful thing her kind has ever done in all of history, but the only thing she cares about right now is to get back – get back, get _away,_ and figure out what’s wrong with her.

Sirens don’t spare lives.

There’s a dark chuckle behind her. She ignores it and runs, the blue dress-rags fluttering in the sea breeze, and dives into the coming tide. The very ocean seems to breathe a _welcome home_ into her lungs. Her body dissolves into its pure, almost formless state.

Crescent turns back for a last glimpse of the sailor, but he is already walking away.


	12. One Rainy Day ...

What is the proper course of action, Kai wonders (as he walks street after street under the pounding rain), when it’s pouring buckets outside? The ‘stay at home’ type, probably. Brew yourself a mug of hot tea. Catch up on the homework that’s been piling up on your desk at an alarming rate.

Certainly not ‘choose this moment to take your malfunctioning android to the local mechanic shop’. Especially when a) said shop is four blocks away, four blocks of freaking cats-and-dogs downpour that will make you lose feeling in your extremities, and b) you forgo your signature hoodie in an effort to avoid the flirtatious neighbour girl, who practically tackles you every chance she gets.

His hoodie is warm, but it’s also a dead giveaway. 

And right now, Kai is willing to suffer squishy, sodden sneakers and water plastering his thin shirt to his chest, if it means Linh Pearl won’t recognize him.

So he shivers. And clenches his numb fingers. And blinks rain out of his eyes. And realizes he’s forgotten his umbrella. And drags his android along by a rope, thinking that he probably looks as ridiculous as he feels.

Stars, maybe he should have just called a hover.

Usually the market sector of New Beijing is bustling and loud and bright, but today it’s deserted, and the whole world seems to have gone gray. Everyone has fled the weather and is huddling inside the restaurants and stores lining the street.

Rain patters and makes tiny water explosions on the pavement. Skyscrapers and apartment buildings loom overhead, dark and imposing against the equally dreary sky, and he just lowers his head and tugs poor Nainsi along behind him.

Thunder rumbles.

An elderly lady passes him on the sidewalk, clutching a garish yellow-and-red umbrella. He tries for a smile, even though his teeth are chattering, and she just gives him an _honestly, look at this idiot_ glance before hurrying on.

“All right then,” he mutters. 

Then, across the street, there’s a faint squeak – barely audible over the rain – and a splash. Kai squints through water that clings to his eyelashes and sees that a young woman in a pink raincoat has tripped and fallen on her face.

Kai winces – _ouch_ – but at that exact moment, Nainsi emits a coughy spluttering sound. Alarmed, he crouches down in front of the android, frantically turning her bulbous head this way and that. Has something broken down? Did she magically turn back on?

The rain abruptly stops drumming on his head.

“Aren’t you cold?” says a voice above him.

Kai glances up. The first thing he sees is the heavy-looking messenger bag, then the grease-stained shirt, then the simple green umbrella she’s currently holding over them both –

“Dying,” he says sheepishly, “but I’m trying to be inconspicuous.”

 _She_ is a girl his age, maybe younger, with a tan, multiple-ethnicity face and brown hair coming out of her ponytail. Kind of pretty, actually, despite the utilitarian getup and oil smears. When Kai gets to his feet, he finds that he’s a few inches taller.

Looking amused, she holds the umbrella higher to accommodate his height. “Trust me, it’s not working.”

“Really?”

“That girl” – she gestures across the street – “sure noticed you.”

“Didn’t she just … trip?”

“Exactly my point.”

Kai spreads his hands, confused, and she heaves a sigh, eyes flicking away from his. “You’re wearing a white shirt.”

“… so?”

She speaks through gritted teeth, determinedly not looking at him, “Do I have to spell it out? You’ve been in the rain. It’s _see-through._ And sort of clingy.”

It takes him a moment.

“Ahhh.” Despite the cold, he manages to grin at her. “I see. And your mission is to save innocent bystanders from this flustering sight?”

“You’ve become a public health hazard,” she agrees, though she shifts uncomfortably on her feet. They’re standing pretty close together under the limited space of the umbrella – closer than strangers would normally stand – and she is leaning as far away as she can without leaving the umbrella’s protection.

Kai moves back to give her some space. “Thanks … you know, for rescuing me.”

She glances over her shoulder at the row of storefronts behind them – the street is empty again. “What are you doing out here, anyway? And how could you forget a raincoat, or an umbrella, or something?”

“Oh. I wanted to get my android to the mechanic’s.” Kai nudges Nainsi with one foot. “I don’t suppose you know where I could find a Linh Cinder?”

The girl raises her eyebrows. “You’re looking at her.”

He blinks; then a relieved smile spreads across his face. “I’m Kai.” He offers his hand. “Can I say how wonderful it is to meet you? I was getting worried that I’d have to _swim_ to the market!”

She smiles back, wryly, and accepts the handshake. She wears thick work gloves that extend to her elbows, but Kai figures it’s for the best – _his_ palms are slick with rain, and that’s not the impression he’d like to give this pretty, sensible girl, who has graciously shared her umbrella with someone in need.

“I’m afraid I was just going home,” Cinder says apologetically, withdrawing her hand. “The market shut down early.”

“Oh, stars.” Kai’s shoulders slump. This is what he gets for procrastinating on his homework. He will freeze to death today, or drown, whichever came first. “Can I, maybe, bring it over tomorrow, or whenever the weather lets up?”

Cinder tips her head at him. She opens her mouth – pauses, seems to reconsider what she’s going to say – and says hesitantly, “Why don’t you just bring it over now?”

“What, to your apartment?”

“Sure. I have a lot more tools at home; I can run your android’s diagnostics and everything.”

 _Salvation!_ “Thank you,” he says, picking up the rope tied around Nainsi’s middle. “I would respectfully decline, but right now I think I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“No problem.” Cinder adjusts the strap of her messenger bag and starts walking. Kai hurries to stay under the umbrella. “I couldn’t leave you out here, anyway. You look like a soaked kitten.”

“Did you just compare me to a _cat?_ ” he gasps in mock indignation.

“No offense,” she says quickly. “Cats are really beautiful, and kittens are the cutest things you’ll ever …” 

Kai glances at her, eyebrows raised; in the same moment Cinder seems to realize what she said and stumbles a little, splashing in a puddle.

Before he can catch her arm she’s up again, and rambling. “Sorry, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant you looked lost and … soaked. _Like_ a kitten. Your hair is fluffy and all.”

“Fluffy?” he repeats innocently.

Cinder groans. “Not … okay, that wasn’t … I’ll stop talking now.”

Keeping a straight face, Kai gives a piteous _meow._

She cuts her eyes at him, in a look that says _do you have to?_ , but her lips are twitching - suppressing a smile.

"All right, Kitten Kai." Cinder seems to relax, allowing herself to drift closer to him under the umbrella. "What I meant is, I don't want to be a catnapper, but if you stay out here much longer you'll catch pneumonia. And I do have a soft spot for cats."


	13. The Heartsmith

“I was wondering if you could fix this for me.”

The Heartsmith stares, in disbelief, at the orb in the young man’s hands. It’s glowing a soft yellow – the brightest buttery, sunny yellow she’s ever seen.

 _Happiness._ This customer is happy. What could he possibly want her to fix?

“You heart looks perfectly fine to me,” she says, and clears her throat when she hears the roughness in her own voice. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Well …” The young man hesitates, rubbing his gray sleeves together. _I’m in disguise,_ he had told her upon first coming inside, with a wink. Cinder wanted to point out that it was really stuffy in the workshop, and besides, who wouldn’t notice a face like his? He’s very handsome.

So much so, in fact, that she’s surprised his heart isn’t the yellow-and-pink of being in love.

“You see,” he starts again, “I need courage.”

Cinder shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t –"

“Just hear me out.” Carefully, he lets the heart float into her cupped palms, and she immediately feels its warmth. _He’s very kind._ “There’s this … really important thing I need to do, for the rest of my life. And I don’t think I’m brave enough for it.” His eyes are pleading with her. “Can you help me?”

She bites her lip. Customer discretion is a steadfast rule with her, and she never ever asks after her customer’s personal experiences, even though it would help in fixing their hearts. But this time … just once …

Lowering her voice, she glances to both sides before asking, “What kind of thing?”

He pulls back, eyes averted. The heart is left in her hands. “I can’t say.”

“Of course.” Cinder is flooded with embarrassment. What did she think – that he would share his _really important_ life story with a stranger? “I was just curious. There are different kinds of bravery, and your situation might be … different?”

Looking hopeful, he leans forward again over the wooden counter. To anyone else they might seem suspicious, like two people sharing a secret – the Heartsmith and this unknown young man.

“I think I know what you mean,” he says. “The kind I need is … strength, mostly. It has to last a long time.”

Cinder shakes her head again. “I didn’t mean – I’m sorry, I can’t. I don’t work with emotions. No one does.” And he should know that. Somewhat regretfully, she admits, “I can’t help you.”

The young man blinks, but he doesn’t look altogether surprised. Maybe just … disappointed. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

She nods. There’s an awkward moment where neither of them quite quite know what to say. Then he holds out his hands again, and wordlessly, Cinder lets the heart flow from her hands to his.

The loss of warmth leaves her hollow. When he steps out the door, she almost calls him back, if only to talk to him for a few more seconds, but she knows better.

Altering people’s emotions, helping them get over heartache, is one thing – but courage … it's not in the heart, pliant and susceptible to change. It's _character,_ the solid, immovable core. And no Heartsmith should ever, ever try to manipulate someone's character. That kind of tampering is the blackest taboo. 

Cinder would have liked to give him his courage, but she also knows that eventually, he’ll find it on his own.

And when that time comes, she hopes to meet him again, and see what’s become of him.

***-***

_Please review._


	14. Show Him

_“So why are you ignoring me? Did I do something?”_

_Cinder drew back, knowing she should tell him. He thought she was a mere mechanic, and he was, perhaps, willing to cross that social divide. But to be both cyborg and Lunar? To be hated and despised by every culture in the galaxy? He would understand in a moment why he needed to forget her._

-Cinder, page 292.

*

_Pull off the gloves and show him._

Maybe it was exasperation with how he persisted in coming after her – coming to her booth on market day, even in the heat, even with his looming coronation, with a gold-wrapped gift in his hands. Maybe it was a bout of temporary insanity. Or maybe it was the fact that she couldn’t take the lie anymore that made her grip the fingers of her left glove and yank it off.

The metal plating flashed in the brilliant sunlight. Kai blinked into the glare, still looking confused from their conversation, and reflexively glanced down at the reflective surface.

And froze.

Cinder stared up at him, clenching her jaw, hackles already rising in her own defence. She held her left hand out stiffly in front of her, letting it reflect into his eyes.

There was no going back now. No use pretending.

Kai stared down at her hand, his mouth slightly open. The box fell from his arms and thudded softly onto the table, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked as though he couldn’t process what he was seeing – as if his brain insisted that the metal hand _had_ to be separate from the rest of her, but it wasn’t, and trying to reconcile with this was causing an error message

The very thought made Cinder want to laugh at herself – imagining Kai as a cyborg, one who had the same computerized brain that she did? There had never been anyone more human than him.

The people around them kept milling around. Earth did not stop moving. The noise and chatter and breathless August heat flooded into the quiet bubble that had formed around the crown prince and the mechanic, pulling them back to reality.

Cinder pressed her lips together and withdrew her hand into her lap. 

“You,” Kai started, and cut himself off. Slowly, his eyes traveled from the table, where her metal hand had been a moment before, and up to her face. She couldn’t read his expression – confusion, disbelief, shock, uncertainty. One after the other. “You’re …”

“Cyborg,” she said, through gritted teeth. Why was it so hard for him to say it? To believe what his eyes told him? He ought to get it over with and leave the market, leave forever. It would be easier that way for both of them.

Kai searched her face, brows drawn. Closed-off. His carefree smile was gone, and the disbelief had been replaced with an sort of distrustful incredulity. “You … didn’t say.”

Cinder lifted her chin, defiance in her eyes. “And why do you think?” She had thought that if this happened, she would feel humiliated, feel regret for what she’d lost – but no. She was angry. “Can you think of any _possible_ reason that I did not volunteer this information?”

He shook his head. The princely mask she’d seen before – the one he’d always taken down in front of her – went up again, all tact and diplomacy, and it hurt her more than anything. “I’m sorry. This isn’t my business.”

“You’ve made it your business,” Cinder bit out, and immediately regretted it. Her words were black and bitter, even to her own ears.

She needed to be calm. Respectful.

As befitted a subject and her ruler.

“I ignored your comms,” she said, more slowly this time. “I refused your invitation. I tried to make it clear, but you –“

“Make _what_ clear?”

“That it wasn’t going to come to anything! You brought me your android, I fixed it. End of story.”

Those last three words hung between them like a veil. The look in his eyes – hurt, confusion, sudden clarity – almost stopped the little electrical pulses in her fingers. He could see the social divide between them. Finally, after ignoring it for so long … he saw.

Cinder looked away, down at the tablecloth. The meticulously arranged nuts and bolts and screws, the wrenches and wire-cutters.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, “you should reconsider your offer.”

Kai looked away, too; he squared his shoulders, hands behind his back. The pose was so kingly that she wondered if he‘d practised it.

Vendors and customers chattered around them. The news reporter on the corner was still going on about the peace festival celebration. None of it mattered.

Finally, after an eternity, Kai cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I’ve been …” He shook his head, still not meeting her eyes. “Presumptuous. You –” For the first time, he seemed to be struggling with words. “You tried to keep your distance, I see that now. But –“

“Kai,” she blurted, without thinking. “Spare me the speech. Please? Spare us both.”

He looked up. Opened his mouth – stopped himself. Slowly … nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”

Cinder met his gaze. Waited.

Kai didn’t move. He wavered there, at her mechanic booth, dragging out the time.

 _He doesn’t want to leave,_ she realized. Maybe he wanted an explanation, or an apology. Maybe he wanted to rewind the last few minutes as much as she did.

“You should, um …” Cinder gestured to the gold-foil-wrapped box. If she’d been human, her cheeks would have been burning. Her face, her lips, her heart, all gone up in flames. “You should bring that with you. Give it to some other girl.”

“No,” he said at once, shaking his head. “It’s a gift.”

His honour wouldn’t let him take it back. Cinder couldn’t accept it. Under any other circumstances, she would have rolled her eyes at the stalemate. Instead, she stared at the box, wondering what was inside, and whether she could ever undo the pretty white ribbon.

“Please, take it.” Kai stretched out a hand and pushed it across the table, closer to her. And then he tried for a smile – a flickering, wistful smile. “And think of me.”

Cinder stared up at him, knowing that her expression was just as raw as his. She had abandoned her own mask, the pretense of indifference and politesse. Surely he could see how much this was hurting her, too. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He met her eyes, nd looked away. Down at the table. “Me, too.” It was so softly spoken she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. Kai turned to leave, to disappear into the market crowd, and hesitated – glanced back.

"My request still stands, by the way.” There was an uncertain note in his voice. “If you change your mind.”

All she could do was nod.

He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but only shook his head and walked away.

Cinder waited until she lost sight of his gray hoodie. Then she reached out and carefully took the gold box in her hands. The glinting light off the foil wrapping matched the shine of her metal fingers. Quickly, so that no one would see, she bent down and placed the box under the table, out of sight.

She would open it later, when she was on her way to Europe.

“Cinder, here, take these.”

She blinked as Pearl appeared out of nowhere, slamming down a pile of boxes onto the table. It was such a sudden change of company that Cinder couldn’t understand, at first, what it was that her stepsister wanted. She could only stare at where Kai had vanished into the crowd.

“Put them somewhere near the back, where they won’t get stolen,” said Pearl, waving a hand, not even looking at her. “Somewhere _clean,_ if such a place exists.”

“Fine.”

Pearl tossed her head and sashayed off.

When she had gone, Cinder exhaled a slow, shuddering breath, and put her head into her hands.

 _It could have been worse,_ she thought miserably. _He was polite. He was a gentleman. It could have been so, so much worse._

He might have also found out that she was _Lunar._

Stars, that would really have been a disaster.

***-***

_Please review._


	15. One More Rose

**i.**

Cress had been looking forward to Rose Day. She'd never participated in a Flower Week before, but it was apparently a tradition at her new workplace, and she found that she liked it. It had made her feel all fuzzy inside to receive daffodils from her friends in the office and to give them affectionate flowers herself.

Rose Day was special, though: the flowers were anonymous and definitely of a more romantic nature. Receiving a rose was like finding a note from a secret admirer. And Cress had known immediately, when the whole idea was explained the idea to her, what she wanted to do.

She bought the rose, after having mulled over the florist's selection for at least fifteen minutes. She begged off from her daily coffee break with Scarlet and Cinder. And then, having secured the necessary time and privacy (stars, if anyone was around when she tried to make her move, she wouldn't be able to work up the nerve!), she tiptoed into the common room where the flower-boxes were kept.

With one last glance over her shoulder, Cress gathered her courage and lifted the lid of the box labelled _Carswell Thorne._

And her heart plummeted.

It was full of roses. There were at least a dozen, which was about half the number of people in their department – small and tight-knit as it was. There were some white and yellow blooms among the red, but most of them were that shade of dark wine that declared passionate love.

Cress just stood and stared down into the box. Something about this sight made her want to cry.

He already had so many admirers. When he opened his flower-box at the end of the day, she knew, the sheer number of roses would only serve to let him know exactly how popular he was in their office, how handsome everyone thought him to be.

(Not that he didn't already know that. Thorne was many things, but he was not even a little bit modest.)

And Cress wasn't any different from the rest of them, was she?

Slowly, deliberately, she replaced the lid of the box.

One more rose wouldn't matter to him.

**ii.**

Thorne had frozen in surprise when he'd seen her, the mug of coffee raised halfway to his lips. He'd walked in from around the corner of the common room to see Cress Darnel, and his first thought was, _oh stars, it's her! Smile!_

But she didn't notice him.

Of course not. She never did. All his practised charms had been lost on her from the day she'd stepped into the office.

And it hadn't mattered to him, not really … until he started to notice things.

Cress was smart, very smart. The kind of smart that made him look at her in amazement from the other side of the conference room, listening as she explained some complicated logic to their colleagues. And she was sort of pretty. She hummed while she worked and didn't seem to realise it. She always had a smile for everyone – a warm, bright smile that said _I'm so happy to see you_ \- and he found himself wishing that she would turn it on him, just once, so that he could smile back.

He started to wish a lot of things.

So when Thorne saw her walk up to his flower-box with a rose in her hand, he nearly dropped the coffee. A mixture of surprise and delight whirled through his thoughts and he suddenly had a vision of himself approaching her later, asking her out for lunch, how she would look shy and say _well, okay, I'm free tomorrow at around two_ –

Cress peered into his flower-box for a full minute as he stood motionless on the threshold, holding his breath. After a moment, she put the lid back, turned away so that her long hair screened her face, and walked away. The rose drooped dejectedly from her hand.

Thorne stood there in confusion for a few seconds.

Then he set down his coffee on someone's newspaper and came forward to look into the flower-box himself.

He wasn't surprised at all the roses it has accumulated. In fact, he could probably name all the men and women who have given them to him. Every day he caught them watching him out of the corner of their eyes – hopefully, shyly, sometimes lustfully. It had only ever swelled his ego.

But not now. Not now.

A sting of regret passed through him as he glanced back in the direction in which Cress had disappeared.

He would rather have one rose from her than any number of the others.


	16. Sailors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sequel to _Sirens._

**i.**

In the disreputable opinion of Carswell Thorne, no island can truly be called civilized until it has a tavern. Or a bar. Actually, even a wine-tasting kiosk would do. Something, anything, to soothe the frayed psyche of a man who has met monsters face-to-face and barely survived.

It's a loud, messy, mead-soaked place; everything stinks of spilled ale and sweat. The crowd is not unusual or even interesting – the same ruddy-faced drunkards at the bar, the same bookkeepers and gamblers gathered around the card tables, the same smattering of fishermen and kale growers that can be found everywhere in this part of the land.

And in one shadowy corner, one lone sailor is going unnoticed. His fifth or sixth serving of mead sits on the table in front of him. He does not speak to anyone. Once, mere days ago, he would have wasted no time in getting intimately acquainted with every pretty girl in the room – he would have been surrounded by his fellow crewmates from the _Arugula._

But they aren't around anymore.

"Anythin' to drink, handsome?"

Thorne lifts his gaze from the dregs of his mug and his eyes fall on the pretty blonde waitress standing in front of him. One hand rests on her hip, the other balances a tray of drinks, and her cheerful smile shows a dimple in each cheek.

Despite himself, he can't help seeing a different face. Sweet and heart-shaped and deceptively innocent, that's the face he glimpses every time he closes his eyes … then he blinks and the vision fades, leaving only the waitress. Several men watch her impatiently from across the room, but she looks in no hurry to walk away.

"We've got tea, ale, mead – the honeyed stuff, if you want – and mulled wine if you've got the coin. What'll it be?"

"Another mead," he replies before he can second-guess himself. His table is already littered with mugs drained of their contents, but Thorne has a good head for alcohol, and he wants more than anything to forget the events of the past twenty-four hours.

The waitress gives a perky bob. "Sure thing! Hope you enjoy your stay at the Sweet Crescent Moon, sir -"

Thorne's head snaps up.

"– you'll find comfortable rooms waiting for you upstairs, where some other, more _personal_ services will be available, so just let us know. Anyway –"

"Wait."

The waitress breaks off, suddenly looking nervous. No doubt she thinks that Thorne is going to ask her about the "personal services" which she is clearly desperate not to outline in further detail.

Slowly, Thorne leans forward across the table. "Say that again."

She swallows. "Um. Well. It's, er … companionship, that sort of thing." A shaky laugh. "I'm sure you already know all about that, though, don't you, sir?"

"No," he says, narrowing his eyes, "before that. The – the name of this pub. What did you say it was called?"

"Oh!" The waitress relaxes, her natural smile returning. "It's the 'Sweet Crescent Moon'. You didn't see the sign?"

The words send a chill down his spine.

_Sweet Crescent Moon._

"Sir? You all right?"

A gray cliff towers above him. The ship tilts alarmingly beneath his feet. The music swells, and high winds are beating down, and all he can do is raise horrified eyes to the girl – what _looks_ like a girl – perched on the ship's railing, her predator's gaze fixed on him.

There's something sticky and salty on his cheeks. Sea spray, maybe?

"I'll just, um … I'll get your mead."

Thorne doesn't see her hurry away. It's another voice that echoes in his mind, bringing up a vivid memory of warm sand and a ragged blue dress fluttering in the breeze.

_My name is Crescent Moon._

**ii.**

The next morning, after a brief walk down to the quay, he turns down the street of the pub and finds that the waitress was right: a wooden crescent moon hangs over the doorway, carved with three little words.

Thorne shudders and hurries inside, shoulders curved, careful to duck his head lest the cursed symbol brush against him.

**iii.**

His grandmother warned him about the sirens.

All he ever learned about the sea, he learned from her. She had sailed across the world, once, in search of treasure, pretending to be a man so that no sailor's superstition would get in her way. She knew about ropes and knots, sails and rigging, anchors and currents, and navigation by the stars. Thorne sat on her knee and looked up at her with wide, wondering eyes, wanting nothing more than to be just like his Grandmother Elizabeth.

One night, when he had grown up a bit, she beckoned to him from across the glowing fireplace, a signal that had come to mean she had a story to tell. When he clambered onto her lap (as if he were still five years old), she lowered her voice and murmured, "Carswell, you asked me once about my shipwreck. I wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. Listen closely now, because if you take to the sea as I think you will, you need to know what happened to me. It is very important that you know the truth."

Her somber tone frightened him, but the story she proceeded to tell would give him nightmares for years and years.

Ominous flickers of movement under the water. Ethereal voices. A flash of unnatural yellow eyes, a glimpse of pointed teeth, like needles, filling a too-wide mouth. Beautiful girls thronging around a collapsing, storm-beaten ship, and then converging upon it with the ravenous screams of vultures.

She was not gentle. She made no efforts to not scare him, because he needed to be properly scared to understand. Little nine-year-old Thorne was shaking by the time Grandma Eliza got to the end: she, the sole woman, had been the only one immune to the siren song, the only one to swim away and find land.

"The south sea, Carswell, remember that. Every sea has its monsters, but not everyone encounters them. Most people don't believe. You have to trust me: if you think you're hearing music when you shouldn't, or if a storm comes on that seems unnatural to you, plug your ears with candle-wax and swim as fast as you can."

In the years to come, he tried to convince himself that he didn't need to take his grandmother's story seriously, that he would never meet a siren – it was just a frightening myth. But for all his teenage arrogance, he remembered every word she'd ever told him. And it saved his life in the end.

Thorne left home at age sixteen to learn how to sail a ship. At eighteen, he found a home with the crew of the _Arugula,_ and eventually came to know the other sailors as well as he knew himself. They all had strengths and flaws and dreams, heartaches and happiness, plans for the future or none whatsoever – bachelors, husbands, lovers, taking to the sea for adventure or for duty.

They were good men. They didn't deserve the fate they got. And, by some twisted act of karma, neither did Thorne.

It wasn't that he was especially amoral. He knew right from wrong. He didn't swindle or cheat, and he wasn't the kind of person who would blame another for his own crime. But in the little matters, he didn't care who he hurt. When they came ashore, he would find a pretty girl, flirt with her, romance her, and leave – even if it broke her heart. What did it matter, if he didn't love her back? All he wanted was some fun. Promises were flexible.

And he was selfish. When a crewmate went overboard during a storm, Thorne had been standing closest to him, but he didn't tie a rope around his own waist and dive after the drowning man. When a rowboat of scouts was sent ahead to a mist-shrouded island, he didn't volunteer – if they wanted to get eaten by lagoon sharks, he thought, why not let them? Thorne's first love was himself. He knew it, his friends knew it, and their ties to each other were all the weaker for it.

How ironic, that it was only after the sirens, after the sailors of the _Arugula_ were all gone, that Thorne wished he could have given his life for theirs.

**iv.**

Some memories are jumbled, indistinct. Some are lost to the murky swamps of the mind, either too long ago or too inconsequential to remember. Some are preserved as snapshots and flashes; small, fleeting scraps of the life you've lived. Then there are the memories that are as sharp and cruel as the cut of a knife: they blaze at the forefront of the mind, lighting your way, or else casting a shadow; they keep you awake and tear you apart. And the one that plagues Carswell Thorne is exactly like that: it has a terrible, haunting presence of its own.

Dark cliffs looming over the ship.

The muffled silence in his ears, stuffed with candle-wax.

Complete mayhem on the deck of the ship, as the sailors yell wordlessly, shove each other, tripping and tumbling, all but throwing themselves overboard.

And then –

Dreading what he will see, Thorne cranes his neck –

And there on the clifftop, lined up in an arrowhead, are the sirens. Green-blue skirts whip around them. They raise their arms like summoning the wind. Their mouths are open horribly wide, and their expressions are black, bottomless hunger, something insane and broken in their faces, _inhuman._

They are the storm. They are the worst fate that could befall a sailor.

Death has closed its fist around the _Arugula._

Thorne stands frozen, staring up at the sirens' distant figures, and starts to shudder. His grandmother's warnings echo in the back of his mind. He tears his gaze away, everything in him screaming with fear, and sprints across the deck. He'll jump and then he'll swim, as fast as the treacherous water can carry him.

He stretches out a hand to grab the railing

and blinks awake

and finds himself standing in a dark room, the wooden floorboards cold beneath his feet.

A derelict cot is pressed into one corner. A pair of borrowed, threadbare shoes lie beneath it, barely visible in the gloom. Thorne stands with his hand outstretched toward the window. He must have been about to undo the latch.

For a moment it's all he can do not to stagger with vertigo.

The sea spray is gone, the sirens are gone. Night has wrapped this little village in sleepy silence.

Heart still pounding, Thorne goes ahead and opens the window, hoping that fresh air will clear his head. _The nightmares will stop,_ he tells himself firmly, trying to gather the scraps of his self-confidence. _Once you find a way out of here, you can forget all about … you can forget._

But as soon as the wooden pane swings out, the breath chokes in his throat. Even through the mess of rooftops and streets visible from the window, he can see a small pocket of black ocean winking in the moonlight.

He wants to hide under the bed like a child. _Close the window,_ he commands himself, but the order is lost to a song suddenly creeping through his head, a song he could swear he's never heard before.

… _forget all the world,_ croons a sweet voice, as the distant water ripples through the harbour. _Dream a little dream of your heart's desire._

How can this be? He didn't hear them sing. If he had, he'd be dead, his broken body devoured or at the bottom of the sea. And yet, the music tiptoes through his head and settles in the corners, and Thorne doesn't have to know where it comes from, to realise that it is not going to leave.

… _away with the nightmares and your darkest hour_ …

He shuts his eyes tight.

**v.**

It happens again two nights later. Again and again and again, he wakes up on his feet with a hammering heart, always facing the window. Usually it's closed, allowing him to stagger back to his cot. Sometimes it's already half-open and he has to slam it shut as soon as he realises what he's doing. Once – just once – Thorne opens his eyes to find himself leaning through the frame, face turned toward the harbour, a breeze ruffling his hair.

As if the dreams want him to throw himself into the sea.

Phantom tunes weave into his sleep and leave him with dark circles under his eyes. Waking up every morning is a terrible relief. Thorne spends his daylight hours walking the cobblestone roads of the village where he has ended up, exploring shops and street-markets, about as far from the docks and the smell of salt as he can get. His nights are whiled away in the tavern of the inn, gambling and chatting up the barmaids, idling there as long as he can before they close down and he is forced to return to his room upstairs. Back to the nightmares.

He dreads sleep now, but the only alternative is heading outside and wandering by the light of the moon, and Thorne will knaw off a hand before doing that. Some part of him fears that without the lively crowd and protective sunshine, there will be nothing to stop him giving himself to the ocean – that the music will lead him down to the water and he'll be powerless to resist.

He's always been a coward, hasn't he?

He can hardly recognize himself. There are the physical changes – his gaunt face, the stubble on his chin that he forgets whenever he looks away from the mirror – and there are the fears that hover at his shoulder, things he used to enjoy that bring him no pleasure now. The flirtatious charm that used to come so naturally has gone. No one catches his interest; it makes no difference to him whether he has someone to warm his bed. He can't bring himself to come near the beach, let alone touch seawater. He doesn't even have the heart to play cards anymore.

Thorne was once carefree, but how can that happen now, when the eerie strains of siren song follow him wherever he goes?

**vi.**

_… dream a little dream of your heart's desire_  
_and forget all the world, for here is your place_  
_Away with the nightmares and your darkest hour_  
_Come and be happy till the end of your days_ …

**vii.**

"You know," someone remarks one evening, "if you don't have a ship, the _Rampion_ is making her maiden voyage the day after tomorrow."

Thorne looks up from his ale with clouded eyes, the world blurred in front of him. A man stands in front of his table – tall and dark, with a splash of lime near his head – but Thorne can't make out any features. His head is full of drink.

"What're you talking about?" he mumbles.

The man swings around a chair from a nearby unoccupied table and takes a seat across from Thorne. "I know a lost sailor when I see one," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Take to the water again. Your place isn't here, drinking yourself to oblivion. It's out there."

Thorne shakes his head quickly. "Can't. They'll get me."

"Who?"

 _The sirens, the sirens._ Who else? Doesn't he _know?_ The sirens are everywhere now, their voices flooding the air above the land, calling to him across the water, their faces all around him, the phantom brush of fingers against his ankle. But that's not the worst of it, oh no. There's one ghost that won't leave him alone – the ghost that he hates most particularly, because he doesn't know if he should be afraid of her or not, doesn't know if it's wrong to see her face in his dreams as much as he does.

 _Sweet crescent moon, up in the sky._ The song whirls through his head. _You sing your song so sweetly_ …

The man's low voice breaks through the spell. "What is it? Who are you afraid of?"

"Them," whispers Thorne. "They sing. They were so beautiful. One of them came close but she let me go." Not until he says the words aloud does he realize how much that's been bothering him, clawing at him from the inside out. He raises pleading eyes to the man who's joined him. _"Why would she let me go?"_

"Crescent!"

The harsh squawk makes Thorne jump, and his first panicked thought is that he's never said her name out loud – has he?

"That's right, Boots," says the man, a touch of laughter in his words. "We're at the Sweet Crescent Moon." He addresses Thorne again. "Meet my macaw, Boots. She's quite intelligent."

A parrot. Of course. The bright green splotch by the man's shoulder begins to take on the defined shape of a bird. Thorne relaxes slightly. Green is for plant life and trees. Green is for _earth._ No seawater there.

"Linh Garan," offers the man, stretching out a hand.

"Thorne." It takes him a moment to recall what he usually says next. "Carswell Thorne."

"Well, Carswell Thorne, I'm going to tell you something. I have a ship sailing out of harbour tomorrow evening, and if you join the crew, I'll share a little secret with you."

"What ship?"

"The _Rampion._ Headed for the Silver Isles."

Thorne draws back. "But isn't that …?"

"The lost Blackburn kingdom, yes." Linh Garan fiddles with his glass, a peculiar smile playing about his lips. "Abandoned since the disappearance of Channary Blackburn and her infant daughter. You've heard of it, I imagine."

A nervous chill traipses down Thorne's spine. He's heard of it, all right. Everyone has. But to mention those cursed islands is to bring bad luck on yourself, and the last crew that attempted to sail there … well, no one knows exactly what happened to them. Some say the ship became a ghost, doomed to sail the seas forever. Others say it was pulled down by a kraken. A few even claim that it just vanished into a strange mist one day and was never seen again.

Now it seems that Thorne is invited to take part in the same crazy expedition. The fog in his brain isn't helping. "You want me to join your crew?" he repeats, slurring a little, just to make sure he's got it correctly.

"That's right." A moment of silence passes before Garan adds, as if he can see Thorne's doubt, "I am on a quest, you see. I'm looking for something very specific, something precious. And I can see that you're dying to find your sea legs again."

Thorne shakes his head. "No, I can't go back."

"Whyever not?" Garan says impatiently.

"They _sing_ …"

The man eyes him speculatively. Then, all at once, understanding dawns on his face. "You've seen the sirens?"

Thorne's eyes bulge and he shushes Garan frantically, but none of the dwindling crowd seem to have heard.

"Tell me, what were they like?" Garan's expression is one of unabashed curiosity, bordering on fascination. He lowers his voice and scoots closer to the table. "Did you hear them? No, you wouldn't have, you wouldn't be here otherwise. But what did they _look_ like?"

Thorne swallows and stares into his glass. The memory of the sirens is pressed suffocatingly close to his chest. Would talking about it make the whole ghastly ordeal any less awful?

"They were beautiful, but … unnatural," he manages. "The most horrible things I've ever seen. Like demons … I don't know if they could even think or talk. They just sang everyone to death." He can't restrain a shudder.

_Creatures of nightmare, all of them._

_Except her._

He fights the thought. He tries not to believe it. But at heart, he probably accepted it a long time ago.

_Except Crescent Moon._

Garan seems intrigued, but apparently decides not to force the point. "The treasure I'm looking for," he says under his breath, "is dangerous, and priceless, and it hasn't been seen for at least twenty years. If we fail, we face certain death. But if we find it …"

His eyes have lit up with the kind of adventurous spirit that Thorne recognizes from a lifetime of gazing into mirrors. It's tempting, so tempting – to be part of a sailing crew again, seek glory, to be where he was always meant to be.

But he can't forget what waits for him out on the water. "The sirens, they –"

"Will you let them rule your head?" Garan demands. "Let them cloud your judgement and keep you from your destiny?" He leans forward, and his tone becomes deadly serious. "You need to face your demons, Carswell Thorne. Come back to sea with me and find them. Otherwise … sooner or later, they'll find you first."

Thorne clenches the empty glass of ale to stop his fingers from trembling.

His point made, Garan stands from the table and tips his hat to him. "Join the _Rampion,"_ he reiterates, quietly enough that they won't be overheard. "We'll make good partners, you and I."

"I could just leave this place and never come back," Thorne mumbles, unwilling to concede.

"But you won't," says Garan with a knowing smile, "because I have something you need."

He tries to muster a glare, but it's difficult with his head full of alcohol. "And what's that?"

"A purpose."

**viii.**

_Come back to sea with me and find them … or they'll find you first._

Thorne sits on his small cot and tilts his face into the breeze drifting through the open window. A red disk of sun is sinking below the horizon, its light turning the harbour water to flame.

The black outline of a schooner lingers on the edge of sight.

He may be a coward, and he may value his own life above almost anything else, but he would rather die a sailor than lead this empty existence on land, waiting for the nightmares to drive him insane. Whatever freedom he had before, he lost it the moment he laid eyes on the sirens, and he's been in their grip long after he left that terrible cliff behind.

Unbidden, he remembers his encounter with the one who followed him. How she'd just stood there, watching him, without the slightest hint of monstrous hunger in her sweet face. The others had been ethereally beautiful, but not her. She was just sort of pretty.

_Sing for me, why don't you?_

_I can't._

Thorne hadn't let himself think about her. Every day, he felt the cruel irony of his survival: every last one of the _Arugula's_ crew had drowned or been killed, but _he_ was to be spared – the egoist, the thief, the one man who maybe didn't deserve to live. But to think that, to top it all off, he'd been spared by a siren, that he'd somehow gotten away with the one who happened to _not_ want to kill him … he'd never despised his own luck so much. He nearly drove himself mad trying to reconcile the image of the howling monsters atop that cliff with a girl who had stood uncertainly before him and struggled for words.

Maybe the sirens had put a spell on him somehow after all. Maybe all it takes is one look for a man to lose his mind. Maybe the music will possess him when he rows out to sea and he'll end up drowning anyway.

But the risk would be worth it.

She'd allowed him to walk away, but he doesn't want to live carrying the weight of her kindness. Some days it feels like her name is his curse. And if this is the way to shake off that curse, so be it.

He's done letting his memories rule him.

**ix.**

The sun has disappeared beneath the horizon by the time Thorne leaves the Sweet Crescent Moon. Fire is smeared across the sky, fading overhead to a deep indigo where a single star winks to life. A few people bunch together on the streets, but most have gone inside by now.

Thorne approaches the harbour with slow but determined steps. When he emerges from between two buildings and finds himself in full view of the sea, with nothing between him and the water … he half-expects something in his mind to snap, for his limbs to disobey his mind and walk him into the deep, but nothing happens. Hope rises in his chest. Maybe all his fears were for nothing – maybe the sirens have no real power over him except what he _thought_ they had.

Stars above, why had he waited so long to come back to sea? For the first time in weeks, he feels … okay. He feels _better,_ anyhow.

And there – lingering on the shadowy water – is the _Rampion,_ just within rowing distance.

Waiting for him.

The harbour is almost empty now, only a few fishermen mucking about with their lines down at the other end. It's the easiest thing in the world for Thorne to walk up to a little rowboat like he owns it, undo a few knots, and step inside.

(If he's going to go looking for dangerous treasure, he might as well start by hijacking some poor sap's boat. Something tells him that Linh Garan's little quest isn't the honourable crown-sanctioned kind.)

Thorne picks up the paddles and starts to row, back and forth, settling into a comfortable rhythm. Water laps quietly against the wooden sides of the boat. His nerves are tingling, his blood thrumming with excitement and fear, like the first time he climbed to the crow's nest with no one to catch him if he fell.

 _I'm really going back,_ he thinks, arms already aching. He's out of practice, but stars, does it ever feel good to be on sea legs again. _I'm back in the water and nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to stop me._

Thorne glances over his shoulder. The _Rampion_ is closer now. Garan must have anchored it just outside the harbour –

"You shouldn't leave the land," says a soft voice.

Thorne gives a yell of alarm and whirls around. The paddles clatter into the boat, but it isn't half a heartbeat before he's snatching one up and brandishing it like a spear into the face of the creature who'd spoken – and when Thorne's brain catches up with what he sees, his breath rushes out all at once, like the wind has been knocked out of him.

She looks like a human girl treading water, with damp blond hair plastered to her cheeks and a sweet heart-shaped face. Her bare shoulders peek out from the water. And her eyes – bright blue, like chips of sky. If he didn't know better – if he'd still been the old Carswell Thorne – he might have found himself _considering_ her, might have decided to give her a smoulder and see where it took them both.

But the old Carswell Thorne drowned with the _Arugula,_ and this one knows better than to think this creature is anything less than a monster.

Silence stretches out between them. She just blinks at him from the other end of the paddle.

_It's her, it's her, it's her._

"You," he breathes.

The siren gives him an appraising look, and asks uncertainly, "You remember me?"

Her name has been on Thorne's tongue for so long that it's almost a relief to return it to her, let it come back full circle. "Crescent Moon," he says.

Surprise flickers over her face, like she hadn't really expected him to recall what she'd so willingly given. He almost laughs. How could he have forgotten – how could it not have mattered? Knowing her name tied them together. He couldn't have blotted it out if he'd tried.

And stars above, he'd tried.

"What are you doing here?" he growls, lifting the paddle higher.

Crescent glances down. He can't tell if it's a nervous tic or if she's worried about the other things swimming around in this water, other things that could be watching. Then she looks back up at him, biting her lip.

His voice rises. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

"Listen," she says quietly, drifting near the boat. "You can't go back to sea."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard the song," she insists. "You evaded the ocean. If you leave the land, we will claim you. It's only a matter of time."

Thorne narrows his eyes at her. And says, enunciating carefully, _"I didn't hear the song."_

Crescent just gives him a sad look. "It might not matter."

He stares at her, incredulous. Could the man-eater be genuinely warning him?

There are so many things he wants to say to her right now. What does she mean, he evaded the ocean? Evaded death, maybe. That doesn't mean he's destined to die at a siren's hands. And why would her sisters bother to come after him especially? Why is she even telling him this?

But none of that matters, not really. There's only one question he needs answered, one that's been eating at his sanity ever since he washed up on that wretched beach.

Inch by inch, keeping his eyes on her, Thorne lowers the paddle.

"Why," he says in a steady low voice, the whole world silent but for the lap of water against the rowboat, "did you let me go?"

Crescent presses her lips together. When she speaks, it could have been the wind or the water.

"I don't know."

He snarls, a vicious twist of the mouth. _"Why did you let me live?"_

"I don't _know,"_ she repeats, louder this time.

"Why not Julian, hmm? He was a good man, much better than I could ever be. If anyone deserved to live, it was him." Thorne's grip on the paddle tightens until his knuckles go white. He's rambling, but he doesn't care. He needs to say this to her face. "What about Liam? He was annoying and he smiled too much, but he had plans. He wanted to find a sweetheart he'd left behind somewhere. And I bet she wanted to find him, too."

Crescent grimaces and presses her hands to her head, as if trying to keep out something unpleasant. But Thorne has no sympathy for her. She personifies every sleepless night, every crazed nightmare, the shiver he succumbed to whenever he laid eyes on that stupid tavern sign. He might never be able to face the true monsters, but he can strike back at her.

As far as he's concerned, she is the _Arugula's_ killer.

"And Kit had a wife waiting for him," he goes on, nearly shouting now. "She was with child, for stars' sake! What about –"

Crescent screws her eyes shut and shrieks, "Because they were already _dead!"_

Thorne flinches, the words dying in his mouth, as her shrill cry echoes around the harbour. A few seagulls erupt from their perches in alarm.

The siren opens her eyes, and for a moment they blaze with anger, like some battle is raging behind her pale face; her lips part and he catches a glimpse of needle-sharp teeth.

And then the anger and the teeth disappear, and Crescent looks away as if horrified by her own outburst.

It is all too easy to forget that she's the deadliest thing he's ever met. To forget that he has already cheated death once – cheated the sirens – and that he should never test his miraculous luck again.

Without a word, Thorne picks up the paddle. Crescent watches him lift it and point it at her, and he doesn't think he's imagining the hurt on her face. But how could he possibly tell what’s real and what was illusion with this creature?

"I don't know," she whispers a third time, eyes downcast. "I just followed you from the ship … I thought I'd have you. But I decided not to. I was curious … And you were so angry."

He sneers. "And you're used to your food not talking back to you, yes?"

It's her turn to flinch, as if he'd slapped her.

What's wrong with this siren? She's soft-hearted, he thinks scornfully. How dare she be soft of heart?

How dare she make an exception of him?

"You have to understand," Crescent pleads, not trying to keep her voice down anymore. "You're only alive because you saved yourself _before_ I spared you. The others were already under our spell. They were as good as dead!"

"I don't care," he spits. _I don't care that you spared my life. I don't care that my friends were lost before the ship even broke down. I don't care that you sound like you have a heart._ He takes up the second paddle and starts to row again, as much to get away from her as to reach the _Rampion._ "I'm going."

"No, wait – please –"

In the blink of an eye, she materializes in the water by his side and he feels a cold, wet hand sliding up his wrist. A chill shoots through his skin. With a sharp gasp, he yanks his hand away, and the paddle slips from his fingers and falls over the side of the boat.

Crescent manages to catch it before he even realises what's happened. She holds it out to him like a peace offering.

He stares at her warily, every voice of reason insisting that this is a predator, that any moment he might be grabbed and pulled underwater. But she's hesitating, too, unsure of how she'll be received.

Without making a conscious decision to do it, Thorne stretches out a hand and wraps it around the wooden handle.

She doesn't let him pull away. "Tell me your name."

 _Loneliness,_ he thinks with a twinge of surprise, and tugs harder. "Give it back." But Crescent doesn't budge an inch, just stares up at him with sincere blue eyes.

What possesses him to tell her? The knowledge that she might very well hang on to the paddle until he gives up? A petty desire for his name to haunt her, just as hers had haunted him? Or was it the part of him – however small – that looked at the siren and saw something else, something gentle, something almost human?

He exhales with reluctance. "Thorne. Carswell Thorne."

Crescent nods and lets him take the paddle. He slips it back into the water, knowing somehow that this is the moment for them to part ways again, that she won't keep him any longer. And yet – yet now it's his turn to hesitate. He searches her face, trying to perceive her thoughts, trying to understand why she'd come to warn him, why she would even care.

It's a moment longer before he realises he's completely forgotten about the waiting _Rampion._

"Why aren't you eating me?" he asks, breaking the silence.

A distant smile touches her lips. "I haven't eaten anyone since your shipwreck."

Thorne frowns. _That's not an answer. Is it?_ Three weeks have passed since the Arugula was destroyed. He has no idea how often a siren is supposed to feed, but the way she says it makes him wonder if there's something more to it than a lack of hunger.

Seeing the look on his face, she lowers her eyes, shaking her head slightly. "What does that make me?" she murmurs, almost to herself.

He opens his mouth – to say what, he doesn't know – but cuts himself off. There is nothing more to say.

"Row quickly," Crescent whispers, turning away. "And stay away from the south."

The siren disappears with a faint _gulp_ of water, and just like that, he is alone again on the harbour.

The sky has darkened to purple, only a faint hint of gold near the horizon. Dazed, he starts to row again, settling into a familiar rhythm that takes him fast across the water. The last few minutes seem like a trick of the imagination. Surely, he couldn't really have spoken to his ghost again?

No. He won't think about her just yet. Right now, there's treasure out there waiting for him.

Thorne manoeuvres the boat around so that he can row facing the open sea. Night is falling fast, but if he squints, he can just make out a man waving down to him from the _Rampion's_ starboard side, the shadow of a green macaw on his shoulder.

***-***

_Please review._


	17. Where the Heart Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2017 Ship Weeks, themed "Home".

“Passage for one, please.”

The genie glanced up from the pack of cards he was idly floating over his fingers, the other fist propping up his chin. When his bored black eyes caught on the girl at his booth, though, the cards swooped down to the table. He looked her over from head to toe and beamed.

“My, my. What’s a moon girl doing in little Rieux?”

“Would you keep your voice _down?”_ the girl hissed. Heavy work gloves covered her fisted hands. She wore cargo pants and laced combat boots and a lifetime’s worth of city dust on her face. Altogether, she didn’t look like someone to be messed with.

But that meant nothing to the genie. The genie messed with _everyone._

“Oh …” he murmured, peering closer at her. She flinched away. “Oh, that’s very interesting …”

One of the dangers of asking a genie for help is that any one of them could spill your secrets in a matter of seconds. If you kept them in a jar, they’d smash it against the wall. If you hid them in a nook or cranny of your mind, a genie would pry them out. If you tried putting them in a brass treasure chest, he could produce a key that unlocked anything. And so it shouldn’t surprise anyone, really, that this genie – a particularly talented one, as suggested by his vibrant blue skin and curling horns – could also see the ghostly silver crown perched on the moon girl’s head.

 _She doesn’t know how to take it off, poor thing,_ he thought, and smiled at her. “You’re not just any moon-dweller, are you?”

The girl leaned forward, hands braced on the table, and said through clenched teeth, “Passage – for – one.”

“Okay!” he said brightly.

She blinked.

“Where will you be going on this fine sunny day?”

“I –” She hesitated, looking away. “I want to go home.”

“Hmm,” he said. “See, that might be a problem. The last time I was on the moon, I managed to offend half the aristocracy, plus the queen-regent herself, and only barely got away to Mars. I had to hide there for a quarter century until it was safe.”

The girl frowned at him. “How long ago was this?”

The genie grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Almost never.”

Confusion flickered across her face, followed by annoyance. “I don’t have time for this. Here.” She tossed six gold pieces under his nose. He made no move to catch them and they clattered to the table. “Take me home.” 

The genie raised one eyebrow at the money. Pursed his lips.

“Six golden dragons _is_ your fee for a teleport, isn’t it?” she said, her impatience concealing an undercurrent of hysteria.

“It is,” sighed the genie. “But I think the princess Selene could do better than that.”

“Don’t call me that. My name is Cinder.”

“Fine, fine. Cinders and ashes. I have something better in mind that you could pay me with.”

Her gaze darkened. “And what’s that?”

The genie smiled, slooooowly.

"What is your happiest memory?”

The girl, Cinder, looked down at his outstretched hand, and her face shuttered. _She must not have many happy memories._

“Just give me your hand,” urged the genie. “I’ll know which one it is, even if you don’t.”

“And afterward, you’ll take me home?” she whispered.

“Yes, yes. Fine. Probably.”

She took the genie’s sky-blue hand, the sparkling heat of magic humming between his skin and hers, and the last thing she knew was the genie’s black bottomless eyes that swallowed her whole.

.

_The peace festival in New Beijing. The streets were crowded with shouting, cheering people, the cobblestones showered with flower petals and lucky party favours from the parade. Sun lanterns hung from every window awning. The tail end of a red paper dragon flickered around the next corner._

_Beside her, the boy in the gray sweater was laughing, in high spirits. “I should have come down here years ago!”_

_Cinder grinned and took his hand again. “The palace can’t have anything on this, can it?”_

_“Not until the evening ball.”_

_Knowing exactly what his thoughts were on the ball and who should be attending with him, she bit her lip and tugged him to a different kiosk. “Here, what about apple bobbing?”_

_“Oh, stars. Not to be a spoiled prince or anything, but is that sanitary?”_

_Cinder smiled. He was starting to say that a lot:_ Not to be a prince, but … _“Androids clean and replace the water for each contestant. You’ll be fine.”_

_“I bet I can rescue more apples than you.”_

_“What are they, damsels in distress?”_

_“Three copper pieces,” the kiosk manager sighed, looking supremely weary._

_She tossed him the coins, then positioned herself over a bucket full of clear water. Kai did the same to her left. As the manager counted down, she glanced up at the crown prince, who was about to plunge his face into a water bucket and lunge, teeth-first, at some floating fruit, like any normal citizen of the Commonwealth. She couldn’t quite believe her eyes. She couldn’t believe her heart either, though for an entirely different reason._

_On the count of three, just before she turned away, Kai glanced up and flashed her a smile – that disorienting, carefree smile that knew no bounds – and Cinder missed the cue. She turned hastily, dizzily, and splashed face-first into the chilly bucket_

.

The moon-dweller yanked her hand away. She stared at it, incredulous, then turned her puzzled eyes on him. _“That’s_ my happiest memory?”

His indigo lips curled at the edges. “One of them, at any rate.” He steepled his hands, watching her carefully. “So who was that nice boy?”

“No one,” she snapped.

“Really? I suppose he could have been joking about the spoiled prince thing” – the girl’s eyes widened – “but it sure didn’t seem like it.”

“Enough! I gave you my happiest memory, you take me home. We had a deal.”

The humour left the genie’s eyes. “What makes you think I know what’s home to you? Granted, I know a lot of things without being told. Magic can tell me what’s inside your head. But it can’t tell me what’s in …” He tapped his own chest, right over the heart, “… here.”

“You mean you don’t know either?” said Cinder, her words tinged with desperation. “You can’t help?”

The genie considered her. Moon-dweller, machine girl, mechanic. He knew it all. But some things even enchantment couldn’t decipher. He knew what she was, _who_ she was, but not who she was meant to be. He knew about her responsibilities – the ones she shouldered, the ones she didn’t dare take up – but he couldn’t tell her what to do with them. He knew where she had fit in all her life, but not where she _belonged._

“I am sure you know by now,” he told her quietly, “that home is where the heart is.”

“Yes, but I don’t know _where_ my heart is!”

“You are used to thinking with your head. Part of you tugs you back to that great city where you grew up. Part of you says the crystal palace in the sky must be your home, for it was there that you were born and there you are meant to take the crown.” The genie narrowed his eyes at her. “And still another part of your mind is repelled by both these things and longs for that empty horizon, for your own life free of ties and strings. You desire freedom, is this not so?”

Turmoil churned behind Cinder’s brown eyes as she nodded.

“So … Linh Cinder, Princess Selene, heir to the crystal throne. Where is your heart? Or should I say … with whom?”

“I guess it’s not anywhere at the moment,” she said softly.

The blue, horned man considered her for a moment.

“What drives you to the city, then?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I would have thought nothing would keep your heart in New Beijing once your little sister was gone. But I see that someone is tugging on a string to bring you back. It’s not just that you grew up there. What’s in New Beijing?”

“The emperor of the Eastern Commonwealth,” she said stiffly.

"No need to be sarcastic. I meant, what do you miss? What makes you want to go back?”

She closed her eyes. “The emperor of the Eastern Commonwealth.”

The genie paused. Peered up at her. 

“What, _really?”_

She sighed. “Yeah.”

“That’s the boy who was with you? I was joking before about the spoiled prince thing.”

“He wasn’t.”

The genie gave a low whistle. “My, my, my. Princess Selene and Emperor Kaito. Who would have thought?” 

And he promptly started to laugh, shaking off the somber mood.

“What?” Cinder said defensively.

“This is too precious,” said the genie between guffaws. His blue face was tinged purple from the rush of blood. “Oh, this is so easy. Dearest princess, you have it all cut out for you!”

“Please,” she said, crossing her arms, “explain.”

It took a moment for him to calm down, for the laughter abate so he could speak calmly.

“You might not want your birthright now, but you should get started early, yes? So here’s what I propose: you go to New Beijing. You demand an audience with your emperor, who will probably give you an informal one anyway. Tell him who you are. He’s been looking for Princess Selene, hasn’t he? If your aunt the queen-regent won’t give up the throne for you, and you’re forced to march on the capital, why, then he will stand by you!”

“But this doesn’t tell me what I want to know,” Cinder burst out, thumping a fist on the table and dislodging the box of cards. “Where is home? Where can I go when it becomes too much? Where can I lay my head to rest at night, without having to worry about the cost?”

“Nowhere,” said the genie. “Not yet. You will have to make yourself a home. Take back the palace, your birthright, and perhaps you will find a family there. Fall in love. Make some _friends.”_ He stood up, offered her his hand. A mischievous smile tripped across his face. “Or, you know, you could marry the emperor and make New Beijing your home as well. There’s that option.”

Cinder closed her eyes and took the genie’s hand.

“All right. Take me to New Beijing.”


End file.
